The Savior and the Demon
by Maleday
Summary: At Voldemort's defeat, Draco's dark mark infects him with a mysterious and deadly curse. Harry is determined to find the cure before his time runs out. But how can Draco accept help he doesn't believe he deserves? Eventual Drarry.
1. Prelude

**A/N: This story starts in the battle at Hogwarts and goes from there. Primarily it is written in Draco's perspective, with some chapters in Harry's. I respect the canon (_no, I don't own it_) and I try to remain as close to it as possible. Epilogue is disregarded, however. **

**One of the things I didn't understand from DH was exactly why Narcissa lies about Harry being dead, probably because we just don't know much about her, so I kinda added to that in the prelude... **

**Anyway, thanks for reading! Leave your thoughts with me in the reviews! - Maleday**

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**Prelude (PoV: Narcissa Malfoy)**

The Forbidden Forest is cold. Why Voldemort couldn't have included thermo powers in our fancy death eater cloaks I will never understand. The cold seeps unnaturally deep into my bones and I can feel the magical hatred behind it. We do not belong here in this wood. We are invaders.

And my son is alone behind enemy lines.

The normally statuesque rank of Voldemort's closest followers is fraying. Everyone is shifting erratically. The adrenaline left from the fighting makes it so difficult to wait. I wait for my bracelet to tell me my son is alive, my one reason to keep fighting.

A little legilimens and I find the tension everyone feels is directed at the missing person on Voldemort's right hand. Where is Snape? I hadn't even noticed. Where is _Draco_?

I can only spare the missing man what amounts to a blink in my focused concern. The hour is almost up and Potter has not come. Soon more hellish chaos will let loose and Draco will be once again thrust into imminent danger. I squeeze the bracelet sending yet another panicked inquiry his way. _Are you alive, Draco?_

Please, Potter, end this once and for all, but if you cannot at least end it for today.

My hand flies to my bracelet at the speed of light the instant I register the burning sting on my wrist. I turn my bracelet and hear his voice in my head: _Potter saved my life. Twice. _

It is spoken in a bewildered but otherwise emotionless voice, as though shocked by the reality of _good,_ something he so long questioned and battled with. I have heard similar tones in Death Eaters right before they are killed by Voldemort, the sound of utter defeat by the betrayal of everything they thought they knew. It's the moment when they realize- everything.

An overwhelming wave of gratitude washes over me for Harry Potter for giving Draco the moment, without making it his last. For being the one to not only save my son's life but by doing so also set him free in his belief that good exists.

But I'm still scared. I know that Draco might as well lay down his (my) wand in this state. At least then he may be taken prisoner rather than get killed.

I am about to send him my warning when I see a flicker coming from somewhere beyond the fire I have been staring into. My eyes dart to Voldemort who is bowed intensely. All eyes are on him now as the hour is just closing.

"No sign of him, my Lord," Dolohov reports with barely concealed impatience. There's a long pause before Voldemort looks up at the fire.

"I thought he would come. I expected him to come. I was, it seems . . . mistaken."

"You weren't," says a confident yet weary voice and Harry Potter steps out of the woods, eyes on Voldemort. He stands tall with both arms humbly at his sides. Does he have any concept of self preservation?

I've never hated him, but now I am dangerously close to loving him, this young hero I do not understand.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort croons, an expression awkwardly close to glee on his snake-like features, "The Boy Who Lived." And he raises his wand.

I try to force myself to move, scream, disintegrate, anything, but I am a Slytherin and our thoughts are forever in the way and I think: _what can I do really that would save the savior_.

The words are spoken, the light flashes, and Potter is blown backwards. Voldemort is also thrown down and I take the distraction as a chance to sneak closer to Potter's body. Suddenly a curse hits me and I scream in surprise at a burn on my side.

"You," Voldemort spits, "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead." I rush the remaining steps towards the body of this boy no older than my son. Respect turns into reverence as I kneel down facing away from Voldemort and the rest. I place my hand on his forehead. "Thank you." I mutter. I open his robes and press my hand onto his chest.

His heart is beating.

My protection instincts combine with my overwhelming need for redemption, even in this small way. Knowing the Cruciatus will come, I press my fingers into his chest channeling my magic to make him unable to feel pain. I stand fluidly and face the Dark Lord with not an ounce of fear, though that probably has to do with him just unceremoniously falling on his ass.

"He is dead!" And I know I lie well.


	2. Saving the Demon

**Saving the Demon **

I thought I had been so ready to die. I'd been fantasizing about an afterlife free of fear and force, free of _duty. _How incredibly enticing it sounded. And not that far fetched since they say the afterlife is unlike anything you ever experienced.

I had kept screaming though, I don't know why. Some cursed sense of self preservation maybe. Or maybe it was because I was Goyle's only hope, as always, stunned stupid as he was. Or maybe it was just because fire is a horrific way to go. I owe it to my parents to at least leave a body behind.

I couldn't stop my hand from grasping Potter's when he had swooped down through the smoke to save us. I also couldn't let go of Goyle. I make a terrible bad guy. Accepting help from the enemy and not betraying worthless sidekicks. What's next? I half expect to run into a distressed damsel as I absently round yet another corner of the battle ridden halls. Instead a Death Eater greets me with a wand pointed at my chest. That's ironic. I remember Potter disarmed me and I put my hands up.

"I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm Draco, I'm on your side!" I say, though I don't know why I bother. My name hardly protects me now. Old habits. The Death Eater sneers behind his mask. I drop my hands and dig them into the pockets of my robes pretending to reach for my wand. At least I can die appearing to fight this time. No more screaming.

Just as a curse is being spoken the Death Eater falls down stunned. I look around imagining my mother or father, the only ones who would save me. A punch to the gut sends me backwards, tripping over the stunned man.

"That's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!" Weasley's voice calls from further away. Numbly, I stumble to my feet and take the wand from the grip of the stunned man. I don't even bother to look who it is.

I can't process the possible reasons Potter would have to save my life, partly because there _are_ none, other than an overdeveloped sense of heroism. Did he really value human life enough to risk his own for an enemy's? Why? He wouldn't have been hurt if I had died. In fact, he'd be ridding himself of a rather nasty headache, no doubt. We had been there to detain him in what appeared to be an urgent quest, after all. So why would he go out of his way to save me? _WHY? _

I look over the balcony at the battle going on below and it is obvious Potter is going to lose.

What I do next cannot be explained. Did I not just say Potter was _losing? _This whole night is confusing. There are no _reasons_.

I was raised to repress feelings, to think only in terms of actions and consequences. Plots, cunning plans, schemes, all my forte. All well thought out. But I suppose there are consequences to the action of repressing feelings that was not factored in, because unplanned action is how Malfoys express feelings that cannot be repressed any longer. And then it's all chaos from there.

I cast a disillusionment charm on myself and leap over the railing into the fray of the battle. My feet immediately feel so much lighter than they have since I joined Voldemort with them dragging behind me. Curse after curse fly from my borrowed wand as I weave around the witches and wizards locked in noble duels with Death Eaters. My curses are all green and they are all aimed at the masks I was forced to wear.

Three are killed within the first 20 seconds and that's all I get anyway before his voice reverberates through the castle. At the words "I command my forces to retreat immediately," all 5 of the remaining Death Eaters in the room whirl for the door. I seal it in an instant and watch as they look around for another escape route. Stunning curses fly their way from various spots around the room and every one of them falls down as I disable their weak shields.

"I speak now, Harry Potter, directly to you. You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself. I shall wait one hour in the Forbidden Forest. If, at the end of that hour, you have not come to me, have not given yourself up, then the battle recommences. This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour."

Of course, Voldemort is right. Potter will go. I realize for those 20 seconds I had let myself hope that maybe… I have to find Potter.

As I run down the hall leaping over bodies in the way, I grip my Malfoy crest and send a message to my mother, "_Potter saved my life. Twice._" I hope it's enough for her to forgive me.


	3. The Unlucky Demon

**The Unlucky Demon **

I've never considered myself a lucky guy, which many people would find ironic given my wealth and blood status and family in general. Not to mention my looks and brains...

But that's pretty much as far as my luck extends. It seems that after birth the luck god decided to balance things out by taking away all forms of random chance and leaving me only lucklessness.

In truth, I am incredibly unlucky, which is why finding Potter in the great hall talking with Longbottom after only fifteen minutes of searching shocks me. Longbottom rises a couple notches on the stupidity level as he lets Potter slip away under an invisibility cloak with only so much as a nervous glance. Doesn't anyone else see that he's going to offer himself up?

Panicking that I'll lose him I block the entrance to the great hall with a shield charm that can detect someone's touch, praying that he is the first one to discover it. Again shocked at my luck, Potter walks right into the shield like a fly in a spider web. I reach out blindly and snatch him by what feels to be his shoulders and pull him out of the doorway. He struggles against me and I quickly make myself visible.

"Where do you think you're going, Potter?" I snarl as I rip off the invisibility cloak from him. He snatches it back.

"Found yourself a wand, Malfoy," he mutters as he calmly folds up the shimmery cloak. He doesn't glare and there is no tone of anger in his voice. He sighs and looks back into the hall at the fallen. It is obvious in his look that he has resigned himself to his sacrifice.

"I'm not here to get my wand back," I say in frustration.

"And I'm not running," he says simply, "I'm going to your precious leader, no worries. Though I'd prefer not to have an escort, if you don't mind." He tries to get around me but I block him.

"How can you even _think_ of going to him?! After all they have done to protect you?! They need you alive! We all do. If you're going to keep playing hero, do it _right." _ He looks at me vaguely confused at my softer tone, then laughs ironically.

"Draco Malfoy. Always my demon. Even when I'm doing something you are _supposed to support_," he gives another short laugh as though remembering us throughout the years and finding all or our animosity simply funny. Another sign he's given up, something I wouldn't have blamed him for at all only a half an hour ago, but now I find it detestable. He tries to get by me again but I shove him back against the wall.

"I switched sides," I say in a voice that is more like pleading than I intended. He gapes at me. "You saved my life," I say softly, and it is both an explanation and an accusation, "You saved my life only to give up now. Why now?" My voice practically breaks because I know I'm fighting a losing battle.

He will go. Of course he will. Because he doesn't think things through, doesn't think about how everyone will _lose _if the Chosen One dies. It's all suddenly so frustratingly simple. Everything _good_ is also _impulsive_. _S__acrifice_ must be impulsive, or else it doesn't work. The reason he saved my life is because he didn't think about reasons _not_ to.

Funny how quickly one can become disillusioned with good so soon after discovering its genuine existence.

He looks at me with pity, but I know he hasn't changed his mind.

"I have to, but I'm not giving up, I swear. I have reasons, real reasons. Trust me. Help the others defeat him. You're not bad with a wand," his eyes glint, finding amusement in the fact that he was complementing _me._

I know it's a long shot with practically everyone in the room eyeing our interchange but, desperately, I draw the borrowed wand hoping to force him to stay.

I don't know where the stunning curse came from. I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't hit me. All I know as I wake up is that it's too late.

"HARRY! NO!" is coming from numerous sources and I feel a dead weight of dread in my gut. People are scrambling to get out of the main entrance and it feels as though I've been trampled over as I struggle against the crowd to stand. I force my way out into the crowd and see what everyone is focused on: Potter's lanky body lying at the feet of Voldemort.

I can hardly believe it. Whatever Potter meant to me, as a rival or a savior, I push all personal thoughts out of my head. The Chosen One is dead, and I now I don't see anyway out but full force ahead.

Voldemort catches my eye and motions me forward.

Like I said, I've never considered myself lucky.


	4. The Brave Demon

**The Brave Demon**

I walk compulsively to the edge of the crowd before finally hesitating.

Of all things I could think about at this moment (like how my parents will be tortured and killed if I don't go, or how I will be tried and possibly sent to Azkaban if I stay, or how it all doesn't matter anyway now that the Chosen One is dead), I think of Potter. I see his determined expression as he dares a risky move on his broom and catches the snitch just out of my reach. And I think: bravery seemed to work well for him, maybe giving it a try would actually be in my _best interest_. Maybe bravery is actually the _Slytherin_ quality to have in this instance. Then I remember the freedom I felt after leaping over that balcony, and wonder how I could have even considered giving it up.

I scan the line of Death Eaters for familiar white blonde hair and when I find them they are already looking at me with pleading expressions. Telling myself there is no turning back now, I shake my head, almost imperceptibly and mother looks down at her feet. I meet my father's eyes and even across the distance I can see the fear in them, so much more intense than Voldemort himself inspired. He's afraid for me, and one look at Voldemort and I know he should be. I look at the Dark Lord as steadily as I can.

"This time, _I_ choose," I say. Voldemort's eyes narrow and flash dangerously. I feel him in my mind for an instant and I don't waste energy trying to force him out. He scans through my memories of my recent kills.

"Fenrir," he says in a low voice, "bring me the traitor's body."

A wave of pure panic hits me. Of course he would know my worst fear. Greyback has long been the subject of my nightmares.

The wolf-man wastes no time in lunging out from the line of Death Eaters and barreling at me, alternating randomly from two legs to all four. Every instinct I posses immediately tells me to turn and race into the crowd under a disillusionment charm. I have to remind myself that I'm trying out this whole bravery thing and that innocent people would be hurt if I did that. For a second I remain rooted to the spot and I'm afraid my usually cunning mind is incapable of making plans that involve sacrifice.

I hear shouts of "_NO!" _and see Bellatrix and a few others raise their wands and point them at my parents. It's all the inspiration I need. I ready my borrowed wand and just as I am about to be pummeled by the nearly transfigured wolf I send a stunning curse flying at his head and leap over him as he dives down to avoid it. I hear a roar behind me as I race to the right hoping to draw him away from the crowd. As I pass by my parents in a blur I send fancy shield charm their way that will protect them from all curses. They attempt to chase after me but are blocked by a row of Death Eaters that for once I am thankful exist

I'm kind of wicked with shielding charms, only that really doesn't help against a physical threat such as an enraged werewolf that can run ten times faster than me. I feel like I'm in one of my dreams where no matter how fast I run it's never fast enough, and I _know _I'll be caught. Just as I am sure the claws will catch hold of me, I side step and dash in the opposite direction towards the quidditch pitch flinging curse after curse behind me. I spare a glance back and am satisfied at the distance we've come from the standoff. Still, I want Greyback to have a long walk back after he kills me, so I keep running.

The curses that do hit the werewolf seem to have little effect other than slowing him down for a few seconds and making him that much more determined to catch me and eat me alive. He seems to literally shake them off. Whatever strength I had going into this is draining and panic is replacing my adrenaline. I'm almost to the quidditch pitch. I need to form a plan.

Just as I think it, Greyback cuts around me and I practically run into his open claws. Whatever he lacks in tactic and skill, he makes up for in genuine ferocity. His wild grey curls jerk sharply about his head as he leaps at me gnashing his teeth and growling wretchedly.

"Traiter!" he spits, "I'm going to enjoy this." His eyes tell me he's not lying at all. They show intense fascination and greed. His claws sweep at me and I am progressively backing up. I realize he is playing with my like a cat would a mouse. I send a nearby rock hurtling at him but he lunges away and it explodes to his left. Before I have a chance to speak my next spell, he is on top of me. My head slams into the ground making everything go black for a second. When I can see again I'm greeted with yellow spear like teeth. I cry out as his claws dig deep into my shoulders pinning me down.

"I'm going to tear your arms off," he says smiling wider, if you can call it a smile. His claws dig deeper into my shoulders. I stretch my right arm against the agony and pat around the ground for my wand while struggling against him with my legs. I barely feel it with the tip of my fingers and look to my side, stretching to reach it. This leaves the left side of my neck stretched out and exposed. He must think I'm giving up and flat out offering myself to him.

A hot wet sensation licks down my left ear to my shoulder making every ounce of my being cringe. I struggle hard both to free myself and to grasp my wand, expecting the bite to come next. _Bravery really is only for Gryffindors,_ I think and it is probably my last sad thought I will ever think.

Suddenly in the blink of an eye the werewolf is knocked off of me and sent rolling. I waste no time in scrabbling for my wand and-

Looking up, I see the source of the rescue- just as it hits me full force and sends me flying into the air: The Whomping Willow.


	5. Sectumsempra

**Sectumsempra**

My neck threatens to snap in half as I'm whirled, jerked, tossed, and spun by this tree that I'm trying _very_ hard to be grateful for. I can't make out anything in the blur that rushes by my ragdoll like body. I'm being plummeted to a premature death by a _tree! _Definitely a down grade on the noble death scale from manic, bloodlusting werewolf. I can hear my father's inward groan as they read my eulogy. Some poor _Malfoy, _bested by a willow. All the times he's warned me against being the weak link resound in my head as I am snatched out of the air by yet another branch.

With an immense amount of effort I swing my legs up and latch them around the branch, refusing to let it throw me off. I hang on with a death grip, biting the borrowed wand between my teeth. Sensing my strategy the branch goes ballistic and, like a rogue bucking bronco, determinedly tries to throw me off with jerking angles and wide swoops. My grip is just about to come loose when it makes the mistake of sweeping low enough to the ground that I can let go. I fall flat to the ground knowing it's the only way the tree won't be able to swipe me up again.

I pretend to be unconscious, but from under my eyelashes I can see Greyback creeping up to me. He is staying as low to the ground as possible to avoid the branches and again I'm reminded of a cat trying to avoid water after being splashed. Only he doesn't look like a cat but an enraged demonic psychopath. I struggle against every instinct to at least raise my arms protectively over what apparently is still my attached head. He is steps from me and I grip the wand tight against my chest taking a brave leap of faith.

"Wake up, little Malfoy," he sings, "I want you to feel this." And he pounces, slashing my shoulders yet again. My eyes flash open and I meet the yellow eyes of the terrifying man-wolf. He grins evilly at me just as I've seen him do to every "meal" Voldemort gifted him, and in every nightmare I've had of him. He is pressed much tighter to me in effort to stay low and I struggle to breathe. I know casting a spell now with my wand sandwiched between us could just as easily harm me. Still, I'm on a strictly "bravery only" role and killing Greyback might be worth dying for, in a noble sense.

"Sectumsempra!" I say as loudly as I can while simultaneously kicking and pushing up with all my might. The blast of the spell takes over my upward momentum and Greyback flies backwards, stomach carved open and guts bursting out. The Whomping Willow branches knock into him and grab him flinging him around. Wails and shrieks echo around me as blood and guts spray everywhere. I'm splattered across the chest and quickly put up a liquid shield charm to evade any more of the lycanthropy infected blood. I scramble backwards away from reach of the branches that seem to have a personal vendetta against the werewolf whose body is being ripped and torn above me.

I stumble slowly to stand, and stare shocked and revolted at the scene. I'm too exhausted to fight the churning in my stomach and I gag. Looking up again, on the opposite side of the tree from where I'm standing, I see what's left of Fenrir Greyback get spit out as though the Whomping Willow is equally revolted.

A rumbling sound from deep in the ground gets louder and louder until I see the surface of the earth mound upwards near the body and a long root shoots out and raps around it. A smart tug and the root pulls the remaining lump of the Death Eater back down underground. I breathe out.

I take a few shaky backward steps before I force myself out of my reverie. There is _battle_ going on! And my parents are likely targeted by both sides of it! Cursing myself at the insane distance I felt ridiculously necessary to draw Greyback away, I take a deep breath and start running head on towards the castle.

With each step my head is pounding to the tune of _why-the-fuck-am-I-still-attached-to-your-body. _ And just when I think it couldn't get any worse, the ground, the sky, the lake, the _atmosphere_ explodes into supernatural rumbling. It's all I can do to stay on my feet as I watch dumbfounded as a large group of giants appear to be chased out of the Forbidden Forest by wild centaurs. All around the air all sorts of flying magical creatures are appearing, silhouetted perfectly by the half-set sun. For a minute, my breath is stolen by the majesty of it all. The devotion these creatures are showing to a _wizarding_ war gives my purpose that much more intensity.

Suddenly I realize I am about to be thrust into a game of dodge-the-feet that I feel grossly unprepared for, however I soon realize that's just the half of it when a centaur arrow whizzes by my head. All those intricate shielding charms mother drilled into me once again are useless. A giant's foot lands next to me, throwing me into the air with the resulting collision. I land on top of the enormous limb and use a sticking charm before I can be tossed off.

It takes this hulking being a mere ten jarring, bone cracking strides to make it to the courtyard from where all the witches and wizards have no doubt retreated. My giant stumbles over his own feet (and me) as a hippogriff swoops to attack him. I unstick myself and roll away from his other landing foot. My head is protesting louder than should be possible when I leap back up and dart around giant moving legs towards the entrance of the castle.

Amazingly, I escape the obstacle course in one piece. I skid to a stop as I reach the entrance hall, however. Bloodied bodies lay strewn about in the hall and I am surprised to see they mostly belong to Death Eaters. It's obvious they didn't make it past the entrance before shot by the centaurs or squashed by a giant. Some had blood still pouring out of knife wounds on their calves. Seeing a house-elf body, I figure where it came from.

My heart skips a beat at seeing a man's body with the same stature as father. I race over him and roll him onto his back. Relief flows oxygen back to my brain at seeing the vacant expression of a merely stunned Yaxley. Memories of Yaxley tormenting my family in our own house assault me and before I can think I punch him hard across the face, then stand up and kick him deep in the gut.

The "battle" is uncannily quiet except for the sound coming from outside. Fearing what's ahead I point my borrowed wand and cautiously approach the Great Hall from where I hear a single voice talking almost _conversationally. _ Peering into the entrance, the first thing I see is Harry Potter, very much alive, locked in what appears to be a twirl-off with Lord Voldemort. The two circle each other from a distance, wands raised. Hundreds of people surround them on all sides protected by what I sense to be a very powerful shield charm.

With a cursory glance I see my parents are not here. My Aunt Bellatrix lies limp at the feet of a crazed looking Mrs. Weasley. In fact, they're no Death Eaters left standing.

"… a new master before Dumbledore died, someone who never even laid a hand on it. The new master removed the wand from Dumbledore against his will, never realizing exactly what he had done, or that the world's most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance…" Potter is saying in a voice that says _"I win" _all over it.

Everyone in the hall is tense and silent, listening in rapt attention to Potter. I have never seen Voldemort so furious, his breathing coming in harsh enough for the whole room to hear. Confused about what they were talking about, I perform Legilimency and find the same question on everyone's mind: "Who was the master of the Elder Wand?" What _is_ the Elder Wand?

As if to directly answer the majority's question Potter says: "The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy."


	6. Avada Kedavra

**A/N: So again, a bit varied from the canon DH. Same basic outcome, though. Please review, comment, critique, construct, question, lalala. Thanks for reading! -Maleday**

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** Avada Kedavra **

I stumble forward a bit at the declaration of my name. My brain runs through the stages of shock: denial, _there's another Draco Malfoy, _and more denial, _P__otter's mental. _

My eyes flash to Voldemort and I realize I am not the most shocked person in the room. But just as I glimpse it in his expression, it warps into one of evil contentment.

"And, while you were _dead_, Potter," Voldemort practically croons, "I sent my weapon to kill the Malfoy traitor. So it comes down to this, whether or not Draco has been killed yet by my werewolf because if so, I am the wand's true master. And you don't even have your _Phoenix_ wand to protect you." I figure this is a good time to announce myself, seeing as this bravery vow is leaving me little choice.

"No," I say stepping further into the Great Hall from the entrance, "he has mine." Heads turn in my direction with jaws dropped and eyes bugged. I take another step and feel the shield that protects the crowd slip off of me. Immediately I cast another around myself.

"Potter disarmed me weeks ago." Potter's jaw closes first and I see a mischievous glint in his eye and I could swear I even see a smirk form, even from where I'm standing.

Lord Voldemort's eyes scream with pure rage and he seems to forget his lifelong vengeance against The-Boy-Who-Lived, the prophecy, and the fact he is outnumbered as he whirls on me flinging curse after curse. My shield charm is so strong that it glows golden as spells fly off of it. He disables my shield but I put another up in a millisecond. I don't even bother to point my wand at him, no doubt taunting him even further.

"I… TRAINED… YOU… _as my successor_!" he screeches with each deathly curse.

"Yes," I say quietly in contrast, "And you tortured my family." I now have a multilayered woven shield and he struggles to dismantle it.

"But never YOU! I gave you knowledge and power _freely_!" he snarls.

"I NEVER ASKED FOR IT!" I cry, ripping my already torn sleeve off my left arm displaying my dark mark. He looks at it for an instant and I know he remembers when he gave it to me. How I had asked to wait until I came of age, knowing outright refusal would mean the end of my life.

And then he grins at the mark and my shield is broken with a resounding clap. In an instant he's in front of me and I take a step backward. He grabs my left arm, pressing his finger into the mark. Pain explodes in my head and I can hear my own scream echo, bleeding in my ears

"You were made _forever _my slave the moment I branded you," he scrapes out into my ear, his hot breath burns my neck in the same spot Greyback licked, "And I have something very _special_ in store for traitors."

"Riddle!" Potter calls just as Voldemort drops my arm and flashes away in a blur to face off once again against the Chosen One. The pain is instantly gone and relief engulfs me. I grasp my head and try to regain my balance.

"So it all comes down to _this, _doesn't it?" Potter is saying solemnly, "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does… I am the true master of the Elder Wand."

At the words "Elder Wand," the sun shoots bright red rays through the enormous windows along the westward facing wall of the Great Hall. Through my squinting, I can see the red light play up Potter's menacing look, making the lanky, messy haired boy look villainous. He points my wand and bellows "Expelliarmus!" in the same instant the red eyed tyrant screeches "Avada Kedavra!"

The two spells collide with a colossal blast that shatters the windows and the surrounding shield charm. A wand arcs high into the air, twinkles briefly with refracted sunlight, and falls smartly into the outstretched hand of Harry Potter.

Closer to me, Voldemort is thrown back by a green stream of light rebounding from the collision. He lands on his back and slides on the stone floor until he's close enough to me that I can see his eyes roll back into his skull and his expression turn utterly empty.

I stare unblinking, but before I have a chance to breathe, my knees crash into the floor and my body feels like it's on fire. I pin point the source of the agony to my left arm I seem to be clutching with all my strength. My head rolls and shakes from side to side as I howl and screech at the fire cursing through my entire being. I can't hear or see anything. I can only feel. It has to stop it has to stop it has to…

_Damn you Greyback, for not tearing off my arms when you had the chance! _

In my mind I hear my mother and father's screams as they are tortured. I feel the Dark Lord's hand on my arm, burning away. I feel Granger's despair as Bellatrix carves into her (my?) arm. I feel the fear of the Muggle I was _given_. I feel _everything at once._ I can't bear another second.

Anguish and utter despair cut tight in my throat. How is it spoken? Adavra… Kedvara? _GAHH! _I can feel the wand at my chest; I just can't find the words!

Arms constrict around me from behind, grasping my wrists and twisting the wand from my grasp. They pin my arms tight to my chest. I struggle blindly against them. _Let me DIE! _ _Oh MERLIN! _

I can suddenly hear again, but I only hear my own cries. I see orange red light before my head _finally _decides it's had enough and falls backwards onto the shoulder of this person holding me together.


	7. The Demon's Curse

**A/N : This chapter is in Harry's perspective. Next chapter will be back to Draco. **

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**The Demon's Curse**

For several moments I forget that we are surrounded by a crowd. The air molecules seem to all collectively decide to come to a complete stand still around us.

As soon as Malfoy's head falls back on my shoulder and he stops struggling, I pry his arm out from his grasp. His Dark Mark is vibrant, looking as though the skull is actively snarling at me. It is spreading out in random streaks as though it were made of ink that just decided to leach into his surrounding skin. The tendrils rap around his forearm in a snakelike fashion. It is not moving slowly.

Suddenly, everything in my body goes chill.

Then the air decides to start moving again and everything seems to be rushing to catch up. The crowd reaches us and my name is being called from every direction. Two half-giant hands sweep me up and I can feel Malfoy dropping off me and falling to the ground.

"Harry! You are alive!" is being belted in my ear that's pressed to Hagrid's chest excruciatingly tight. I try to push away and he loosens his grip, then I'm suddenly flying up and sat on his shoulder. Faces flash all around me, screaming and crying and cheering, as I search around below me for any sign of Malfoy. He must be getting trampled.

People jump up around Hagrid touching my shoes and tugging at me.  
"We won, Harry, we WON!" Hagrid cries as he slings me back down to the ground. I land, quite cushioned, in Mrs. Weasley's embrace.

"You were incredible Harry," she says, squeezing hard. Ron and Hermione are suddenly at each side of me slapping my back and crying and laughing. Their expressions are ones of immense relief, and I have no doubt mine would be the same, if I wasn't worried about the Slytherin whose wand I'm still holding. Wait, why am I worried about _him_ anyway?

"It's over," Hermione says with tears flowing freely, "It's really over." I want to agree but I keep seeing the blackness spread over Malfoy's pale, bloodied arm.

"Malfoy, he's—," I start but I'm cut off as I'm sandwiched into a hug between McGonagall and Kingsley. I can feel my eyes widen as do many others around me at the odd behavior of the two, particularly Professor McGonagall who, I could almost swear, has tears in her eyes.

"A thousand points to Gryffindor!" she calls out laughing, yet another phenomenon.

I'm passed around like a quaffle from person to person until I no longer am registering what they are saying. I look around the hall for any sign of Malfoy, and just barely catch sight of his white blonde head as he lamely saunters out of the Great Hall.

"And to imagine Snape was on our side all along, reporting to Dumbledore!" Ron's voice is exclaiming from somewhere to my right. The image of Snape bending over Dumbledore's hand casting spells flashes in my mind and suddenly the need to find Malfoy becomes that much more urgent.

"Excuse me, I need to-," I say trying to get through an opening between Luna and Seamus. Luna steps aside, placing her hand on my shoulder and pointing me to a now semi-open way out of the hall.

The crowd has gone down a bit as people head slowly, aguishly back to their dead loved ones. And no one is without one. There are over fifty. I hear wretched sobbing as I approach nearer to the side of the Hall where the dead are being kept. There is even screaming as more and more people are discovering who they've lost. As I pass, headed quickly to the exit, I see Angelina searching, and finally setting eyes on Fred. Her cry is one I know will be hard to forget, and a fresh wave of sorrow runs through me.

Just as I reach the entrance my hand is caught. I glance back and Ginny is there smiling at me with expectation in her eyes. She pushes her hair back behind her ear and takes a slow step forward until she is only a centimeter away from me. I take a step backwards, almost involuntarily, and watch as devastation appears in her eyes.

"Ginny, I'm glad you're ok," I say turning away and quickly heading out the doorway, "I have to find Malfoy right now! I'll be back!"

I run into the entrance hall and stop to take in the devastation of the structure of the building with the walls crumbled and big stones from the stairwells strewn about. Dust coats everything, including the bodies of the dead. I wander around a fallen pillar, dragging my hand along the dust coating it. I can't help but remember looking up at it as an 11 year old boy and being completely floored by this room's grandeur.

"Move! Take mum and run!" someone shouts, knocking me alert. I step quickly around the pillar and there they are, all three Malfoys locked in an odd standoff. Draco is shooting spell after spell at his parents and they are struggling to reach him against being blown back periodically by the force. Still, they seem to be gaining on him and I realize the spells are nothing but shielding charms.

"No! You can't follow me! Go back!" Draco is screaming, "Run! I'm trying to save you!" He is gesturing wildly and looking back at something behind him, but I look around and there is nobody else in this room.

"Draco, there's nothing chasing you! Stop it!" Lucius is shouting in frustration and panic at once. At his words Draco only becomes wilder looking and shoots a spell behind him to my right at some vision that appears to terrify him. Lucius catches my eye and nods when I point my wand at Draco's back.

"_Stupefy!"_ I say, and Lucius is there immediately to catch his son's crumpling body.

He lowers Draco to the ground, then glances up at me, hoping for an explanation. I crouch down and lift Draco's left arm. Narcissa gasps and Lucius's eyes flash with worry. The blackness has spread to wrap around his entire for arm and is still spreading into his hand and elbow. The skin closest to the mark is turning hard and leathery.

I rack my brains for the incantation Snape used on Dumbledore's hand and repeat it as soon as I remember the exact, or close, wording. The spreading blackness slows slightly and I say the spell again and again until it is so slow that it appears to have actually stopped. I sit back, relieved that it worked.

Narcissa quickly grasps Lucius's arm and shoves up his sleeve, sighing in relief when his Dark Mark shows its normal self, but also looking at him in confusion.

"Harry Potter, forgive us, we went out after our son as soon as the giants arrived. We do not know what has happened. Can you tell us what is wrong with Draco?" Lucius asks, looking at me in the eye across Draco's body. I quickly explain what happened, watching their expressions of confusion and worry warp into absolute horror when they hear their son was most probably personally cursed by the Dark Lord.

"The spell I used was one Snape used, who by the way was a spy for Dumbledore, to slow the curse in Dumbledore's hand after he touched a… a forbidden object," I say, trying to keep things simple, "His hand had looked something like this, so I think Voldemort may have used a similar curse. Dumbledore also experienced some delirium. It'll go away." Narcissa looks at me gratefully, then goes back to healing the cuts on Draco's body. Lucius is not so easily convinced.

"The spell _slowed _the curse?" he asks. I hesitate, then, ignoring his emphasis say, "Well, and some potion."

"Potter," is all he says, not taking his eyes off mine.

"Right, the spell and the potion did not stop the curse, only slow it," I say tiredly.

"How long," Narcissa and Lucius ask at the same time. I scramble for an answer, their eyes demanding it.

"Snape had said, considering the damage that the hand had already come to, that it would be around a year before- "

"My son has a year to live?" Lucius asks, standing up. Narcissa follows and it takes me a second before I realize they had been guided up by two men standing behind them. The only shock on the Malfoys' faces is from the news about their son. They hardly seem to register they are being restrained by magical binds.

I stand quickly looking at the two men who are dressed in auror robes.

"Where are you taking them?" I ask.  
"Mr. Potter, sir," one answers swiftly, and begins to recite as though from a book, "I have been ordered to remove all known Death Eaters from Hogwarts as soon as possible. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy are well known to have served Voldemort, therefore I must take them back to the dungeons of the Ministry." I look to the other for confirmation and he grins at me wryly.

"Congrats on the defeat," he says, as they begin to turn on their heels.

"Promise me you'll help Draco!" Nacissa blurts out, struggling to turn towards me, "You'll do what ever you can to cure him! PROMISE ME!" She almost falls to her knees, but the auror keeps her up.

"I promise," I say, too exhausted to even think about what it means.


	8. The Savior's Potion

**A/N: Less action in this one... I hope it's not too boring. Thanks for reading! Please review! **

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**The Savior's Potion**

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

It takes a mere second of consciousness before I pinpoint exactly where I am. I don't even have to open my eyes.

Snape's sofa.

The slightly-cooler-than-comfort temperature, the smell of cold damp stone and firewhiskey and far too many potion ingredients are all dead giveaways. Not to mention the lumpy antique of a couch that has been too small for me to lie on properly since I started regularing it in sixth year.

THUD! Whatever residual mush inside my skull wants _out_.

The last thing I remember, my body, starting with my arm, was being sawn in two while simultaneously being set on fire, stabbed, drilled into, dragged across gravel, and _crucio_ed for good measure. My head throbs harder at the memory.

Now the only pain in my arm is numb tingling. I struggle to find the muscles to pull it out from under me and let it fall over the side of the couch. Nerve endings send spasm signals that force me to sit up and shake my arm around like I'm casting a hundred charms per second.

_THUD! _Just leave then, cursed, unwanted brain goop!

And before that… Voldemort was laying there, dead. Impossible. And Potter was alive? Maybe that was all just some epic imagin-

My arm is black. _Why is my arm black?! _

The dark mark shimmers up at me, acutely mocking me, when I turn my arm to see if it's still visible. Surrounding it, my skin is shriveled and blackened like it was actually on fire. This … _corruption _was no doubt the source of the pain. It feels as if it goes straight through to the bone. I can't touch it. I can only stare at it in abject horror.

I want to back away from it, and then bolt as far from it as humanly possible. Of course, it wouldn't be humanly possible as long as it remains attached. A simple _dissendium _aimed at my elbow is tempting…

I look away at the sound of glass clashing together. It's coming from the room to my right, Snape's potion lab.

"Snape?" I try standing but end up in an awkward wobble, my head protesting as if the air displacement alone could knock it off. When my feet finally decide the floor is indeed a solid flat surface, I head to the door where the clanking has only gotten louder.

"Snape?" I call again, waiting. He's always hated me barging in, and I owe him. He must have brought me here after the attack. Probably whipping up a quick potion to restore my arm. Hell, he's probably got the same issue with his own mark. Obviously he can't hear me with all the clamoring he's doing, the old bat. Feeling much more confident, I barrel in and charge down the five steps into the even danker room.

"Snape!" I snap at the rustling and clanging behind the counter. A SLAM and a yell follow, and I roll my eyes up annoyed. On their way back down, they meet the green eyes of Harry Potter.

_What? _

As the seconds pass, my shock warps into utter confusion. I take in his rumpled, wary look as he awkwardly shuffles and rubs the top of his head that he must have smacked. He must have reopened a cut, because blood now pools from his forehead. He doesn't even notice. He clears his throat.

"Er, hi Malfoy," he says like the dork he always has been, in a tone that gives away just how tired he is. Although there are a million other things I want to know, I only find a voice for one question.

"So, it's really over?" I ask. He almost smiles, but then his eyes wander to my arm and the ghost of a smile is gone.

"The battle is, yeah. Voldemort's finished…" He tries to say it with enthusiasm, but couldn't have said it any more glumly. Of course not, it should never have come to this, so many were lost… so many scarred, _marked_. It'd be like waking up from a nightmare smiling that it's over. No one does that.

I shake my head (the one that _still_ won't shut up), needing answers before I can think.

"What happened to my arm? And where's Snape? What are you doing here? And where are my parents? How long was I out? Who brought me here?"

He grimaces at my questions and turns around to a shelf, reaching way back into it until his arm is in up to his shoulder.

"Your parents are fine, they were taken to the Ministry to wait a trial…" he says as he stretches further trying to reach something, "I brought you here. They were taking all the known death eaters so you- where are you going?" I'm halfway out the door before he looks around to notice I'm leaving.

"To the Ministry, of course. Would it kill you to _pretend_ to think?"

"Why? To _demand_ your parents back? They'd just toss you in too, in a metal ward. You would hardly be able to hire a lawyer and collect evidence that could save them from Azkaban. " I pause, unbelievably listening to a Gryffindor reasoning. He sighs and rubs his hand over his face.

"Look, I need to make this potion for… your arm. That's why we're here. St. Mungo's is too busy and I have reason to believe this may need to be done _fast._ I'm not the best at potions, even wide awake, so if you could _please_ help me out… I'll explain as we go."

He's back in the shelf digging, not even waiting to see if I agree. I suppose he knows my self-preservation instincts will take over. I stalk up to him and pull the wand I've been using out of my pocket.

"What are you looking for?"

"Rose petals," he answers, straining.

"_Accio _rose petals," I say, and a jar zips out of the shelf into my hand, narrowly missing Potter's head. He sighs, exasperated.

"I'm tired. I need those added to that," he says pointing to a cauldron on the counter. Peering into it, I'm faced with an orange, almost odorless potion.

"What is this?" I ask, looking up after adding the petals and watching them dissolve. He's caught on to my "trick" and ingredients are flying from all around the room and landing in his arms. He drops the armful onto the counter and hands me a parchment.

"Looks like Snape wrote it down in a hurry, there's no name written," he comments, "I am just guessing it's the right one because at the end, here, it says the mixture should be 'honey thick and milky gold' and that's like the one he used for Dumbledore's hand, which is just like your arm. Cush these to powder, enough for two pinches," he commands, sliding me a jar of moon seeds.

"Hold on Potter, I'm supposed to drink a nameless potion you _guess _is correct because you _think_ I have a similar ailment to Dumbledore?"

"Just hurry, Malfoy," he says quickly as he chops up some root, "If I'm wrong, the consequences of drinking the wrong potion will probably be less than having no _right _potion."

"What's that supposed to mean? And what about my father and Snape? The both have dark marks. Will they get the potion?" Harry's eyes close for a macrosecond too long.

"If it is the same curse as Dumbledore had, then it's progressive. You will get weaker and the blackness on your arm will spread. This potion will help. If this works for you, I'll bring some to the Ministry to give to Lucius. Consider yourself the trial." Without a second thought, I begin crushing the seeds.

"And Snape?" I mutter, remembering how his eyes had closed and not sure I wanted to hear this.

"He didn't make it, I'm sorry. I really am. Turns out he was a good man. He spied for Dumbledore," Harry says to his roots. I breathe in sharply, eyes suddenly stinging, and crush the seeds harder.

What a burden for one man to carry alone. The will to lie to _Voldemort_? I would never have thought Snape had it in him. And all while I plopped on his couch and complained about the stress I was under to kill Dumbledore.

I drop two pinches of the powder into the cauldron just as Potter slides in his chopped roots.

"Stir counterclockwise," he says and I do so. He leans over it as I stir and slowly, drop by drop, adds a clear liquid. I keep a consistent stirring motion, the solution getting gradually thicker.

"Ok, stop," he says, "I think it's done. This was the color. It says to serve fresh…" he looks at me, seeming to gauge something. I shrug.

"I drink all of this?" There are at least 12 ounces.

"Um, I think so." I groan at his lack of certainty, trying desperately not to list the reasons why trusting _Potter_ is probably the most stupid thing I could do at this moment. Instead, I think of my father and how this could be his cure, as well as my own.

Wordlessly, I lift the cauldron and drink down the potion. It doesn't taste half bad.


	9. The Link

**There is also not a lot of action in this one! Next one, I promise. **

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**The Link**

The pressure squeezing my head from all sides vanishes. My head literally stops throbbing mid thud. The silence is glorious, I could fall into it.

But my arm hasn't changed. I wait for anything to happen for five more seconds before glaring at Potter.

"It doesn't cure what already has turned dark," he mutters, looking away from my arm quickly.

"Then what _does _it do?" I growl. He just shakes his head.

"Do you feel any different?"

"My head's not trying to blow itself off." He nods.

"Yeah, I noticed you finally let go of it. That's probably a sign it's the right potion." I whirl back to the counter and start chopping up the roots. The instructions clearly said "mince" and whatever Potter had done was entirely incompetent.

"You want another one?" Potter asks.

"For my father, you dunce. You _did _promise." I look up at him, hoping I can rely on that Gryffindor honor thing. He's not looking at me, but at the floor.

"Actually… His Mark doesn't seem to be affected."

_Excuse me!?_

"Explain," I say through gritted teeth as I slam down my knife on the roots.

"Well, you were kind of delirious after… and I had to stun you. Lucius and your mum were there. I showed them your arm and… Lucius didn't have it."

"I attacked them?" I breathe out.

"No! No, it was just shielding charms. You were trying to protect them from something you thought was chasing you." I wince, hoping to move on. Hearing about a moment of utter loss of control is not something I needed from Harry Potter, the savior of the world, destroyer of evil.

But how could only my Dark Mark- oh. _Oh_. His voice reverberates in my head "I have something very _special _in store for traitors."

For the first time I rub my hand over my left arm, trying to get rid of the feeling of Voldemort's nail-like finger burning into my skin. It's hardly skin anymore. It feels like charred wood, only leathery. I quickly pull my hand away, as though burned.

"So you lied to me," I say in a flat tone. He shrugs, still looking away.

"Had to get you to drink that potion. If your dad was the only inspiration—"

"_Father,_" I correct, grimacing. Tricked by a Gryffindor. I understand the powers in the Wizarding World just shifted, but _seriously? _What is the world coming to?

He's still not looking at me, though I'm glaring holes into his head. Something's off. He shuffles his feet awkwardly. Then it clicks.

I swing my arm sharply, knocking the goblet off the counter. It clatters and spins on the floor, echoing in the stone room. I grip the edge of the counter, leaning over it and trying to breathe regularly.

"You never did say it would cure, just that it would help… There is no cure, is there?" I say in a much quieter voice. I feel incredibly stupid for believing it would be such an easy fix. Voldemort himself designed this curse. I suppose I had let myself think that The-Boy-With-All-the-Luck would have one more trick up his sleeve. For me, yeah right.

"We'll figure it out."

I barely register what he said and when I do I can only scoff in morbid amusement. I take a step closer to him, willing him to look up and see the threat I am.

"Snape killed Dumbledore. I was there that night, right on the tower. If Snape served Dumbledore, he wouldn't have killed him. _Unless he was already dying some BLOODY PAINFUL DEATH!" _I hiss.

Shocked at my own revelation, I stumble back, remembering that night clearly in my head. The way Dumbledore looked. Tired, ready. The way his head tilted just so when he said _please_. Little did I know he wasn't asking to live. He was begging to _die_.

"I saw him. I looked right into his eyes. He was obviously sick and weak. I disarmed _him. _ I was supposed to kill him myself but-_." _I hit the cabinet behind me and hear potion bottles rattle. I stop blabbing and my voice hardens,_ "_Now explain this to me, Potter. How do you expect to cure a curse that _the greatest fucking wizard of all time plus his potion's master couldn't cure_."

"What, are you giving up, Malfoy?" Potter says tauntingly, attempting a stupid sneer-like expression. I should give him lessons; that was pathetic. "We just won the battle, defeated _Voldemort_. We have all the time on our hands to cure a stupid curse."

"_We?" _I snarl, "_You_ are the Savior! I had nothing to do with it." My eyes drill into his green ones and before I know it, I'm in his head. I can feel the loneliness that the idea of being the "lone victor" inspires in him. His shoulders slump and I quickly look away, leaving his mind before he realizes I was ever in it.

"You had everything to do with it! You were the link! I killed Voldemort with _your _wand." He reaches in his pocket and tosses me my familiar hawthorn wand. I catch it and feel my magic leap for joy within me. I turn it over in awe. This wand, _my _wand had served to kill the Dark Lord.

"If _you_ hadn't disarmed Dumbledore, the Elder Wand would never have been yours. If _you _had just told Lucius and Bellatrix it was me at Malfoy Manor… it would have been over long ago. If I didn't disarm _you, _I wouldn't have mastered the Elder Wand. If I hadn't saved _your _life, your mum wouldn't have saved mine. _You _fought Greyback- "

"What? My mother saved your life?"

"In the forest, she told Voldemort I was dead after he sent a killing curse at me. She said thanks, so I'm guessing for saving your life in the Room of Requirement. So, Malfoy, the point is, there really is a lot I owe you for."

My stomach churns at the ridiculousness of what he's saying. Owes _me_?! He saved my life twice, if not again with the treatment for my arm! What is he even doing here? He has friends to comfort, people to lead, people to worship him.

Instead he's with me, trying to help me, me who went out of his way to make his life miserable. Me who tortured people. Who let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Who is branded with the Dark Mark. Me who felt nothing for the past year.

Suddenly I find this whole brave hero complex nauseating.

"You don't know who I am," I say, pushing past him and climbing up the stairs and through the open living room of Snape's quarters to the bathroom.

"_Lumos," _I whisper. I bend down under the sink and dig roughly around in a first aid kit and pull out some potions.

"Were you planning on healing your head, Potter?" I say to the boy standing in the doorway, "Or do I have to?"

"My head?" he asks idiotically running a hand over his forehead to the cut still leaking blood just a centimeter away from the lightning bolt scar. He feels the blood and steps inside to look at it in the mirror. He points his wand at it but misses, his reflection throwing him hilariously off. I snort, and he turns to glare at me.

"Sit," I command, pointing to the toilet, "You have to disinfect it before using magic, idiot. Merlin, how have you possibly lived this long?" He sits, looking even more drained after seeing the blood. I hand him a rag with antiseptic potion on it.

"Right, cause you're a picture of perfection yourself," he snaps, snatching the rag and dabbing blindly. He's hitting all the wrong places.

He's right. I look down and discover I'm still covered in blood. My shoulder wounds seem to have been healed in a hurry, but scars remain, since they are from werewolf claws. Thank the Whomping Willow it wasn't teeth. I don't think I could deal with being a werewolf, especially on top of a curse. I quickly _scourgify _myself.

"Who healed me?" I ask. My face and arms (arm and a half) still looks like the Whomping Willow threw a dance party on it. It will take forever to heal magically.

"Your mum," he gasps out as he accidently jabs his cut open wider.

"Freak, just let _me _do it, wouldn't want people to think I mangled the Savior," I say exasperated, ripping the cloth away from him. He was just spreading blood and germs everywhere, the moron.

I clean the blood around the wound first. My hand is so close to that _scar_. My finger, Merlin knows why, is itching to trace it, to see what it feels like. I hurriedly reach for the bottle of healing potion.

He's staring at the arm I have holding his head still. I quickly shove it in my left robe pocket.

"We just need to find out what type of curse it is," he says. _Enough with the 'we'! _

I slam the potion in his cut a little harder than necessary watching him wince.

_"Ferula" _I say and bandages appear, covering the wound. He reaches up to feel it.

"Just let it be for now. It will heal while you sleep," I say, softer than I intended. "And you won't tell anyone about this curse thing," I grind out threateningly, making up for it.

I throw the stuff back and grab a sleeping potion from the cabinet, and stalk out. He follows.

"How am I supposed to explain to my friends-?"

"Explain what?"

"Why I'm spending so much time with you," he says as though we discussed this a thousand times already.

"_Excuse me_?"

"Look, your mum asked me to do what I can to cure you. I promised I would."

"WHAT?!"

"Your mum—"

"Don't say it _again!" _

"Well, expecting it will take longer than a trip to the library to solve your—"

"I'm not going to spend whatever time I have left with YOU!"

"Why, you have a bucket list or something?" he says giving me the narrow-eyed glare he'd perfected over the years. His glasses causing a reflection that made it look even more malicious.

"No… I want to help fix Hogwarts." I blink, utterly surprised. _Where did THAT come from?_

"Ah, atonement. I get it. I think I know you pretty well after all, Malfoy. First healing me, now wanting to _help. _ It's almost like you switched to the good side. Oh wait, you _did_."

I glower at him, willing his glasses to burst.

"Well, I want to help too. But this is probably a _bit _more… demanding," he says sarcastically.

"I'm staying here at Hogwarts until it's rebuilt. I don't need to explain myself to you. And you won't tell anyone about the curse." I say it in a tone mocked directly from the imperious curse, as if questions and choices don't _exist_.

"Then, if I were you, I would hope it doesn't take that long," he said solemnly, "Fine, I won't tell, but after Hogwarts is ready for the next school year, you will work with me to find a cure. We just need to find out what the potion is, then we'll know what it's for and then we'll know what to look for—"

"The last person who made a promise to my mother was Snape. He made the Unbreakable Vow. Look where he ended up." I say it with too much emotion. Fuck, I must be tired.

He ignores me. "Deal or not?"

"Whatever, Potter." And I fall to the couch, taking a long swig of the dreamless sleep drought.


	10. The Victors

**The Victors**

"Harry!"

I wake up with a start, practically falling off the couch, the one that has everything in by body cursing at high speed.

"Where _are _you? Ron and I… well we woke up this morning and you still aren't anywhere."

I force myself up against the cramps threatening to twist my legs off. Why didn't I think to magically extend the couch?

"Ginny said you left to find Malfoy?! Are you alive?" I blink up, searching for the source of the extremely annoying voice. It's a Patronus talking, just a stupid otter. What a waste of adrenaline.

"Come to the Great Hall! Professor McGonagall is gathering people for reconstruction!" It says in a rush, before disintegrating into the air.

Across from me, sprawled in an arm chair is Potter, completely out. His glasses are half off-half on, his hair looking more like tufts of clumpy fur than actual hair. I run a hand through my own hair, smoothing it flat, and then force myself to stand.

I contemplate just leaving him there as I adjust my robes. I repair the sleeve and other tears quickly. It's nice to have something covering the _parasite _on my arm. One look is enough. I could swear it is larger today. It hadn't reached my wrist before, had it?

"_Relashio," _I say pointing my wand at Potter's bandage. It rips off of his head and he wakes with a yelp. The gash is completely vanished.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?!" he shouts, rubbing his head and glaring at me. I smirk at him.

"Time to get up," I say in a mock sweet tone, resisting the urge to shove down that stupid cowlick. There's got to be a spell for that.  
"A Patronus just summoned us to the Great Hall."

I turn away and head to the bathroom, leaving the groaning sounds behind me. What would have possessed him to sleep in a _chair?_ And why didn't he just leave last night? Find his sidekicks and celebrate? Everyone was looking for him!

I can't believe we slept in the same room and both survived!

I stand in front of the mirror and fire healing spells at some of the bigger cuts on my face and neck. The feeling of Greyback's tongue comes rushing back to me and I grip the sink harder. I hurriedly splash water around my neck and over my face. The water is cold and fresh from the lake and feels pure, but it doesn't take away the feeling, no matter how hard a rub at it.

"Are you trying to decapitate yourself? Cause there are faster ways or doing it." Potter's at the doorway. I immediately drop my hands and throw on a blank expression. He's right; my neck now has scratch marks on it. Frustrated I push away from the sink and shove past him.

"Why are you _here? _Everyone thinks I kidnapped, killed you, danced around your body and ate your bones by now. You _do _realize what position that puts me in, right? There are witches all around the globe screaming for my torturous demise." Potter rolls his eyes and tosses me something.

"Hardly. I didn't know Snape was a subscriber," he says with a grin as he watches my eyes pop. It's the Daily Prophet and on the front cover is a picture, not of Potter circling Voldemort, not of Potter killing him, not even of Voldemort's rotting corpse. It's a picture of me, bloodied and screaming, struggling against Potter's arms that wrap around me. It even shows my head falling back, unconscious, against his shoulder.

The caption says: _Longtime rivals, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy react passionately to their collaborated victory over You-Know-Who._

I look back to the picture, shocked, trying to decipher any possible way of coming up with _that _interpretation. I've always known the Daily Prophet was made by a bunch of stupid hormonal witches, but I never thought their logic was entirely non-existent.

Utterly mortified, I banish the paper as far as it will go. Potter looks at me extremely amused. I don't even know what to say. Thank you for saving my life, saving the Wizarding World, killing my demented tormenter, oh, and simultaneously making _me _look like a hero also?!

"_Collaborated victory? _What, cause you stole my wand and used it? This is—"

"I think it had more to do with you stepping out of the crowd, caked in blood, and facing him yourself. Especially as a traitor. Did he really personally train you as his successor?" He's leaning against the wall, watching me get more and more repulsed as he talks. I blink at him, stunned, then turn and walk out the door into the familiar Slytherin corridor.

I hear him trot after me. He grabs my elbow, pulling my arm out of my pocket and ripping up my sleeve before I have a chance to react. I tug it away forcefully.

"I know the spell that slows it. Maybe I should say it again," he says. He must have noticed its spread, which makes it real. So much for denial.

Slowly, I hold out my arm. He grabs it without reserve, as though it isn't contagious and corrupted and done personally by the Dark Lord himself, and casts a spell over it a few times. I memorize it, then shove my arm back in my pocket and keep walking.

"How do you expect to keep it in your robes the whole time we are working?" he asks, shadowing me. He thinks I didn't think of that. Ha! A Slytherin will never be out schemed by a Gryffindor.

"If I use a Fidelius charm on you, no one would be able to see it except you," I say, trying to sound nonchalant. He doesn't buy it.

"You know how to do a Fidelius charm?" he asks, sounding impressed.

"Personally trained…" I say darkly. This may have its perks. He raises his eyebrows, completely nonplussed. Well, maybe not.

"So you want me to be secret keeper of your curse?"

"No, but I don't exactly have a choice, do I? You already know about it and my parents are locked up. And I don't want anyone else to find out." I grimace, hoping my dislike for the situation is obvious. Of course I don't _want_ anyone, let alone _Potter,_ to have that kind of power over me.

"You do realize that I would still be able to tell, right?" he asks.

"I don't know, the Gryffindor honor thing seems pretty binding," I say sarcastically, "and you did promise." Can I actually trust him so much based on a simple _house _characteristic?

"I promised conditionally. On the condition that you work with me to find— "

"I never agreed to your condition. But I'll agree to it now if you be Secret Keeper. The point of the Fidelius would be to make it impossible for anyone else to discover by_ any other means. _They wouldn't be able to see it. They wouldn't even find out if they get in your head. Obviously a huge concern."

He glowers at me. Apparently he took my "whatever" last night to be agreement. I shrug. Slytherin, here.

"I suppose next you'll have me do the Unbreakable Vow to never tell. You're just trying to hide from it by hiding it from everyone else. You want to forget it's even there. You think if no one sees it, it doesn't exist? Is this about being flawless, Malfoy? You can't handle a little weakness? Or is this because you don't have the courage to face the curse? I would have thought you stronger than that after—"

"After what?!" I snarl, "Thirty minutes of random acts of _desperation_ at the end of a war I helped create? That counts for nothing, Potter. It doesn't make me a hero or brave or good. I'm still the same as before."

I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. I could always count on Potter to see me for what I really am. He always called me out from my pretenses, like when I hid behind father or money or blood. He was the first to figure out I was marked, the first to see what I was doing in sixth year. So how could _he_ believe I changed? The Prophet reporters are insane enough, but _Potter? _He was supposed to see through that.

He doesn't say anything until we're in front of the entrance to the Great Hall.

"You're cursed. You'll have to face that. You'll work with me to get rid of it, and in exchange I won't tell anyone, _like we agreed, _but I won't help you hide from it," he says, piercing my eyes with green light from his. He walks into the hall before I have a chance to protest. How did I become such a _fail _at cunning manipulation?

I follow him into the hall, to the sounds of… _clapping? _ Witches and wizards all around the room stop whatever they are doing, turn to the entrance, and start clapping. I quickly shuffle along the wall away from Harry who just kind smiles awkwardly. He catches my sleeve and pulls me further into the room.

"It's for you, too," he says through his smile. Disbelieving, I glance around and find that they are beaming at me, too. Literally they are looking at me, smiling, and not cowering in fear. Something is seriously wrong. Prophets are lying around, some on people's laps, some in their hands, or at their table. Most are on the front page and I can make out the picture, all of them showing my head falling back at the same time. It's hard to believe that actual scene happened in this room less than eight hours ago, and already there are thousands of incriminating copies out there.

I want to shout at the people smiling at me: I'm Draco Malfoy! You know, the one who tortures people! The one who tried to kill Dumbledore! The _bad guy!_

I try to warp my shocked expression into a glare but it's not working. I really don't know if a person could possibly feel more awkward. I hope not, cause this is probably the human limit. After this you spontaneously explode.

I've never loved a human more than McGonagall when she_ finally _shoots sparks into the air, calling the crowd to attention. She then nods at Potter. He shuffles his feet and clears his throat, face red.

"We-uh- achieved something pretty remarkable yesterday," he says to the entire room, "Not only as wizards and witches, but as students of Hogwarts." More awkward clapping. "I hope that this time we spend together restoring our home will help us heal and find the peace we all need pretty bad." He glances at McGonagall and she nods approvingly.

"Next time work on keeping it brief," I say sarcastically, so only he can hear. He turns redder.

"Nearly-Headless Nick will lead a group of five to the East Wing!" McGonagall shouts in her no-one's-business voice, "Five more will follow Myrtle to fix flooding issues in the dungeons! Hagrid needs a group of ten for the courtyard! I need the rest of you here and in the entrance hall! We'll meet back here for lunch at noon!" My stomach growls at that. What about _breakfast? _

Everyone starts talking and moving around at once, trying to decide which group to belong to. A cold sensation jabs through my shoulder and a high voice squeals, "I pick you!" It's followed by a torrent of giggles and I look around, then up, to see Moaning Myrtle floating there, beaming at me.

"And you!" she squeals again "tagging" Potter as well, just as he was making his way over to Hagrid's group that already contains his two minions. He shudders at her touch and looks up at her.

"Oh Draco, I'm so glad you chose the good side! Was it all my good advice I gave you during our meetings?" I try to glare her into shutting up. Potter looks at me, pretending to _try _to repress a smirk. If you could slap ghosts…

"Sorry Myrtle, not your advice. Just the opportune moment," Weasley says, coming around Myrtle to stand next to Potter, "Isn't that right, Malfoy? You saw you were losing so you jumped camps. I bet your father was crushed."

This time, smirking was easy.

"Damn, Weasel, you got me pegged," I say.

"Ron," a very otter-like voice says, "Were you there yesterday? Draco was very brave. He's a good guy, deep down." Granger, the source of the voice and I'm now guessing earlier intruding otter, slips her arm around Weasley's waist. I can't think of anything worse than hearing my first name associated with _good guy _come from the mouth of someone I watched get tortured. Is everyone just patronizing me?! That's got to be it. They all want me to die of guilt.

"Were _you _there yesterday? In the Room of Requirement?" Weasley asks harshly, cold eyes still bearing into mine. Suddenly, I really like the bloke.

"Are you referring to the moment when he tried to stop his friends from killing Harry, or when he tried to rescue the idiots?" Granger snaps back, slapping the Weasel upside the head.

"Ohh! My group is full! Let's go!" Myrtle screams from above us, before Weasley or I could protest. She circles us like a hawk claiming her property and quite effectively herding us out of the Hall. Wait, so who's the fifth?

Suddenly, as soon as we clear the entrance, my shoulders are grabbed from behind and spun around, slamming my back into the wall and I'm staring into the crazed, grief torn eyes of Lupin. His wand is about to poke straight through my neck.

"Planning on biting Harry as soon as the full moon comes, huh, Malfoy?" the man sneers, showing his fangs and flaring his nostrils. It takes me a second before I realize what he means.

"I'm not- I didn't- I wasn't bitten," I fumble to explain. He's looking at me with utter loathing and I welcome the normalcy of it. He's _right _to hate me. I'm _supposed_ to be hated.

"Well maybe we can change that," he says grinning, "You expect me to believe you beat Fenrir Greyback? Show me his body, because I haven't found it, and I've looked all night." His eyes glint wildly.

* * *

**Sorry for going all rogue on the canon with keeping Lupin alive, but... both Remus and Tonks is a bit too much to bear. Let me know what you think!**


	11. Who am I?

**A/N: This one is a little longer than the other ones. I'm going to try to keep them around this size from now on. **

**If Lupin still seems ooc in this chapter, despite what he's going through, just remember it's in Draco's perspective and I don't think he has such a good impression of werewolves in general. **

**Thanks for reading, any comments appreciated!**

* * *

**Who am I?**

Everyone falls deadly silent at the scene outside of the castle. The once majestic grounds of Hogwarts look like they were trampled underfoot, which I guess they were. Three giant bodies lay haphazardly across the courtyard. With walls broken and knocked down, the wind drives straight through, blowing up dust and debris, ruffling the dead giants' hair, and making it appear as though the place were long since abandoned.

How was this amount of devastation required to end just one dark wizard's war? How fragile, how _final_ Voldemort's body had looked on the floor of the Great Hall compared to the disastrous, enduring scene in front of me. It's a broken legacy, and anyone from a pure-blood family knows the tragic significance of that. A legacy cannot be fixed, not to the same age-old dignity.

It's not just me that recognizes that. The full scope of the damage to Hogwarts seems to affect everyone equally as we stare for a few seconds longer in stunned dismay.

Lupin's wand prods my back impatiently and I look around at the man, hoping the scene subdued some of his desperation. His expression is guarded, but the need is still there, pushing him forward. Whatever his reason for needing proof of Greyback's defeat, I know it isn't totally about Potter's safety. There's a franticness to his eyes that sleep deprivation and loss alone cannot explain away.

I glance nervously at the rest of our group, wondering if they will continue to follow. Granger's eyes are brimmed with tears and Weasley's fists are clenched at his side. Potter catches my glance and nods at me to lead the way.

Before I have a chance to ask myself, once again, how I can prove anything, Hagrid's group comes out of the entrance. I quickly force my legs to move on, before they recover from the shock of the ruins, and ask where we are going and why Lupin has a wand to my back.

"You can't just walk away from our duty! The dungeons are flooding!" Myrtle wails from the doorway where she swoops back and forth anxiously. Her cries echo around the crumbling courtyard, making it seem even more deserted as no one pays her any attention.

I lead the way around a giant corpse, over a few piles of rock, and down the hill towards the Quidditch pitch. It feels incredibly disturbing to be walking once again with a mad werewolf behind me over what, only yesterday, I had believed to be the path to my death. Twisted fate.

We walk single file in somber silence, taking in the surroundings. I think we are all slightly comforted when the lake comes into view, something that wasn't destroyed and also not likely to ever become so.

The silence is broken only when our destination is obvious.

"Er- Malfoy, you want to tell us why we're on a collision course with the Whomping Willow?" Potter asks. I sigh and come to a stop just outside of the mad tree's reach. I can't believe I'm back here already, looking up at the tree that saved my life and ripped apart my enemy. Isn't there supposed to be a time lapse longer than a single _day _before confronting mementos of trauma? Cause right now I feel like a year wouldn't be enough.

"You asked for proof," I say, turning to address Lupin, "This is where Greyback died." I rub my neck, wishing to be anywhere but here.

"How?" he asks, eyes dancing around for a sign.

"I got lucky. The tree did most of the work, really. Look, you can still see some blood on those branches there," I say, pointing.

I close my eyes tight, but it doesn't do anything to dispel the images flooding my mind. When I open them, Lupin is looking at me questioningly.

"And the body?" The way he asks it tells me he believes me, but then why does he care? I look away at the lake, then down at the ground.

"It appears the Whomping Willow isn't a particularly photosynthetic tree," I say, studying a particular patch of grassless ground. Huh, wonder what happened there.

"Phota— what?" Weasley blurts, always the elegant.

"It's true," Granger says solemnly, "Whomping willows are a very rare type of tree found mainly in the north. They cope through the dark northern winters by becoming carnivorous. It is believed that this particular whomping willow was planted by Durmstrang students during the fourth Triwizard Tournament."

Everyone blinks at her.

"_Hogwarts: A History_," she adds with a shrug of her shoulder, still not understanding the implication.

"This tree _ate _Greyback?" Lupin asks incredulously, "Show me." His grip hardens on his wand that still points at me. I cringe, easily remembering the end to Greyback, and nod once.

"_Legilimens_." And he's in my mind. I struggle to force my barriers down and focus only on the memory. The blood and the screams and the final fall, and then, the "consumption." I try to leave out the part where I spill my guts.

As soon as it's over, he looks away ending the spell. And then, slowly, his mouth curves up into a smile, and then a full blown grin, creepy enough to rival Greyback. It looks extremely manic and out of place on his soft features.

"Professor Lupin?" Potter calls cautiously as the man starts to chuckle to himself. He drops his wand hand and holds his head with the other, turning around as he starts to practically howl with laughter.

"I just— I'm sorry," he starts, "I've wanted to see this since— he attacked me as a boy. I— to see him _eaten_ by this tree— the one that used to be my escape route during— my conversions…" He barely gets it out between bursts of laughter.

This whole quest to find the body suddenly loses all its mystery. Of course he wants his revenge on the werewolf who no doubt has occupied his dreams much longer than my own. How could he ever be satisfied without cursing the grave of the man who stole so much from him, who marked him with his teeth.

Seeing Voldemort's body land on the stone floor had satisfied me enough, until I was sent in to a fiery pre-hell only to discover, on awakening, that I am dying of a curse he designed. He always did have the last laugh. The only way I could find that satisfaction now would be to kill him again in whatever afterlife I meet him in. Not bloody likely.

A part of me envies the _release _Lupin must be feeling.

Potter continues to stare at him with a concerned, uncertain expression until he drops to the ground, overcome, and soon his uncontrolled laughter mixes with tears, a lifetime of pain and misery all accumulated to this moment.

Potter's eyes melt with compassion for the man. He sits down next to Lupin and puts an arm over his shaking shoulders. I'm not sure if it's laughter or sobs anymore.

Granger and Weasley make knowing eyes at each other. They seem to agree that they should leave the two alone, and start to do just that.

"Teddy needs you," I hear Potter saying, "You have to go home, have to sleep. I'm so so sorry about Tonks."

Ah, so he lost his wife. Both of Potter's arms are now wrapped around the man heaving gut wrenching sobs. Why does my throat suddenly feel like I want to rip it out? I look back at Weasley and Granger climbing the hill and wonder why I didn't follow. Why am I here, still glued to Potter's every gesture and word? Why am I still gazing at this broken man and why can't I swallow away this burn in my throat? My feet involuntarily take me back a step.

Bad (subconscious) decision.

Immediately, the Whomping Willow swings a branch down at me and I'm only just able to avoid it by rolling to the ground and out of the way.

"Run to the trunk!" Potter shouts, chasing after me with Lupin. Are they _both_ insane? Not knowing why I listen, I scramble to my feet and make a mad dash for the trunk. I make it, with fresh torn robes and barely my life.

"The rut, near the base!" Potter shouts, diving under an attacking branch, "Push it!" I find a rut and, stupid as I feel, give it a good shove. In an instant, the tree stops moving as though _petrificus totalus_ed. Potter sighs, relieved, and walks towards me supporting the now limping man.

I want to bash my head against the trunk. I couldn't have known about the stupid rut _yesterday?_

Potter nods at Lupin and, without another word, watches as he climbs down into a hole-like opening at the base of the tree.

_Is he going to dig for that lump of a body?_ The thought makes me blanch. I look at Potter, shocked, expecting a challenging look or at least an explanation. I get neither.

Instead, Potter fixes me with that _melted_ look, like he's sorry for me. Like _I'm _the one to be pitied.

"I think you might want to come with," he says softly. Then he climbs down after Lupin.

Of course, he just_ couldn't_ tell me what the fuck is going on. I pace back and forth in front of the tree hitting my head like a bloody house-elf. I could just walk away. Like a good Malfoy, I could avoid getting dirty, avoid following, trusting, obeying, _stooping. _

Unfortunately, I do all of that. I bend down, climb into the dirt passageway, and trot after the savior. Who _am _I?

* * *

Fuck Potter. Fuck everyone.

For a second I'm relieved for the stinging in my eyes that suddenly make it impossible to see the expression on Snape's face or the bite marks on his neck. Then they spill over, and I tear at my eyes, trying to rip them dry. My chest throbs as though ready to burst, and I wish it would just get on with it.

I can vaguely hear Potter's goodbyes to Lupin at the entrance of the shack. There's a _crack_, and I know he's apparated. I concentrate on Potter's footsteps back into the room. I should probably think about moving, though my stomach might not handle that.

There's a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Draco." I can only nod, while the tightness in my chest finally lets go. There's a tenderness released that feels dangerous but warm inside of me at hearing my name from his voice and his hand on my shoulder. As though pride and resentment and sorrow is being soothed away and replaced with a closeness I know I would be resisting if I weren't completely overwhelmed. My stomach seems to both settle and flip simultaneously.

I crouch down and brush some loose hair off Snape's face and close his eyes. I cover my face in my hands, hiding the flow of tears.

"What are these bite marks?" I ask finally, looking up at Potter who has tears of his own.

"Voldemort believed he was the master of the Elder Wand, since he killed Dumbledore," he mutters, quickly wiping his face, "Voldemort used Nagini to…" and his voice breaks.

Guilt like no other burns in my throat. If only Voldemort had known I disarmed Dumbledore first, if only I had killed Dumbledore like I was _supposed _to Snape could still be here.

"Why didn't he just tell Voldemort about me disarming Dumbledore?" I say angrily, trying to relieve the guilt. Maybe Snape could have survived if he'd been more Slytherin, if he'd not made that bloody vow to protect me.

"I don't think he knew… It's not your fault. There was nothing you could have done," Potter says as though he knows my exact thoughts. It's unnerving.

"And what about you!" I hiss, glaring up at him, "You stood here and watched him get attacked by the snake? What happened to your hero complex then?! And don't try telling me you thought he was the enemy. You saved _me_," I pause while I choke on that memory, "Why not him?"

It's not a fair question, I know. I don't know the circumstances and I'm just trying to displace guilt. Who knows why the savior saves one and not the other. Fate? I know I have no right to question. Especially not me, since I am the one who is indebted to him.

His eyes are tormented, as though I am personally doing the _cruciatus _on him. Why do I want to wipe that hurt expression off his face?

"I'm sorry," I barely whisper, looking away quickly. If anyone had said only a year ago that I'd be apologizing to Harry Potter they would have woken with an irreversible tongue binding curse. What has this war done with Draco Malfoy?

I look back at Snape, the mystery man who carried so much of the weight of the war on his own soul. All those times I had been rude to him, taking out my stress and anger on him, burying my burdens on him, mock me harshly. And all to have him stand by me steadfastly, caring for me without any justification or purpose.

I wish I knew the spell for stopping tears.

We stay there for a few more minutes in silence until Potter grasps my shoulder once more.

"I think we should bury him. Next to Dumbledore. I think they both would like that," he says eventually.

* * *

I've buried bodies before, during the war. Most of them had been transfigured into obscure objects before we handled them. A broom stick, a single bone, a pumpkin. The ones that hadn't were hardly recognizable as human anyway after Voldemort was finished with them. A few suicides are the only bodies I have buried that looked like bodies. And by then I was far too numb to be affected.

I have never buried a person I knew before and it is a task I would rather die before ever facing again. Everything in my tortured soul screams at me to run from the task. Leave it to someone better, someone less tainted, someone honorable.

And then, after we have Snape nestled in a coffin beside Dumbledore's, and look at him for the last time, for a split second I have a twisted thought. I wish, for a moment, that I our places were reversed.

It goes as quickly as it came, but is disturbing nonetheless. I quickly look away and help Potter push the stone slab into place.

As soon as it's done, Potter and I collapse in exhaustion on the nearby hill. The sun is directly overhead, and I have no doubt people are searching for Potter.

"You're sure he wouldn't want a ceremony?" Potter asks. I nod.

"I know for a fact."

"He was a good man," Potter mutters, "Tormented and bitter, but good." I have no doubt I would have scoffed at his pathetic eulogy any other moment. But for some reason, right now it seemed… perfect. I nod at the lake.

"You are too, you know," Potter says, turning to look at me. Now I do scoff. He doesn't know me. _ I _don't know me.

"You're a lot like him. Maybe he influenced you," he adds, ignoring me. I frown at that, reminded how little I actually knew of the man who served as my second father.

"Snape never confided in me his true allegiance. I always assumed he was a pure-blood believer like the rest," I say, mostly to myself. Not to say he didn't influence me in other ways. I love potions, and I can be just as nasty using nothing but sarcasm and a look down my nose.

"And not you? Do you believe in the whole blood cause? That mixed blood is inferior to pure-blood?" I groan. Potter really is naïve.

"Don't make this about my supposed conversion," I snap, "We need to head back, it's noon." I stand up swiftly and start walking towards the castle. Potter follows, stretching obnoxiously, and runs to catch up.

"Malfoy, seriously, you don't really believe mixed blood makes less powerful wizards, do you?" He says it in a revolted tone of voice, as though anyone with that belief must be the stupidest scum of the earth. I know he's trying to trick it out of me by making me want to defend my intelligence. Lying is always an option… but he may see through it. On the other hand, hard truth might get under his skin even deeper. I go for honesty, still not understanding who's really making the decisions, me or this new person I don't know.

"Not intrinsically, no. There is nothing that shows that half-bloods, or even Mu— ggle-borns are less powerful. However, they _are _inferior, as long as the social implications say so. And no war can change that."

"What do you mean?" he asks, obviously shaken at the answer he wasn't expecting. His brow is furrowed and fists clenched. His feet slap the ground a bit more insistently.

"Everyone is prejudiced in some ways, because the mixing of magical and Muggle blood is too new a concept. People haven't adjusted yet." The anger that crosses his face is fascinating. I never knew honesty could be this rewarding.

"That's not true. Many are not. The Weasley's are not," he says defiantly.

"Do you think Mrs. Weasley is _as _happy with her son's relationship with Granger as she would be if it were with a pure-blood, say, Lovegood?"

"Of course! She loves Hermione!" Potter splutters indignantly. He seems satisfied with how sure he is of his response, suddenly seeming at ease in our debate.

"And would she be _just as happy_ to have a non-magical grandchild as she would a magical one?" Potter frowns, not knowing the answer, but not willing to admit it. I waste no time, we are almost to the courtyard.

"The answer is obviously no. She wouldn't be able to share herself and her culture completely with her grandchild if Granger and Weasley produce a Squib. And they are more likely to considering Granger's blood status. It's simple genetics." Taking a few seconds to sort it out, I watch as his face goes from confusion to anger.

"You think you can compare wanting magical grandchildren to wanting pure-blood domination?" he asks with a bitter bite to his voice. I turn to face him, blocking the entrance the courtyard.

"The point is, Potter, prejudice _exists_, in some form or another, among everyone," I say darkly, "It's engrained in our social system. Two cultures, Wizard and Muggle, have so far not learned to be compatible. People still fear the unknown. Muggles fear magic, Wizards fear non-magic. Fear makes people do and believe insane things. And as a fear, it should be talked about and acknowledged. It should _have been_ talked about, after the first war. And it probably needs to be talked about now, to prevent a third."

I watch his expression seem to change showing a confused range of emotions instead of pure malice. Where is the old arrogant, fighting Potter?

"How would talking about it make someone like your father adjust to the idea of having non-magical grandchildren?" Potter asks sarcastically, but with an undertone of genuine interest. I snort.

"For my father, there is no hope. Maybe, though, if it were talked about when he was going to school… If it were accepted as a normal part of life for wizards to have non-magical family members…" I don't know how to finish that sentence because thinking of my father in the hypothetical is like trying to imagine a world without magic.

"You might be right," Potter says, eyes wide and staring through the archway I'm blocking into the devastation of the courtyard. I almost fall backwards at the words.

"Dumbledore's sister was a Squib, but no one talked about her. Look how that ended. " He seems to be muttering mostly to himself now, and I wonder if I pushed my paradigm too far.

"Has nothing really changed since then?" he asks, looking at me, unnervingly vulnerable. I try to stop the rush of guilt that comes at his lost expression. What right do I have to tell the Savior that his victory may not have actually changed all that much. I can't ignore his crushed but hopeful expression.

But honestly! What did he expect? A war just shifts powers, nothing more. Values, fears, hopes, beliefs, they all stay the same. You'd have to kill a lot more people to eradicate an idea.

"I wouldn't say that," I answer, not understanding where this soft side is coming from, "Dumbledore did his best to break down some of those social barriers. And there definitely was more recognition of both Muggle-borns and Squibs. Still, recognizing something exists and accepting it are two different things."

I had Potter knocked off his high horse! Why didn't I go in for the kill?!

He is staring holes into my skull.

"And you think acceptance would be a good thing?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

"Obviously," I say with a gesture around the entire grounds of Hogwarts. I duck into the courtyard, not wanting another second under the scrutiny of those piercing green eyes.

"Who _are _you?" Potter asks, before following behind me. I shrug.

"Just someone who's had way too much time to think."

Potter is still gazing at me, shaking his head, all the way to the Great Hall.


	12. Who Is He?

**A/N: Hi, just to address a guest review quick: The conversation from last chapter was supposed to show how the war has changed and matured Draco. He is more thoughtful and observant. Having that conversation between any characters other than Draco and Harry would have defeated the purpose. (And Hermione is not the only one allowed to think.) **

**I'm actually kind of discovering how daunting the task really is, to describe such growth in a dynamic character. Drarry is really sacred ground to me, and I feel kind of unprepared for it as a writer. So many challenges and so much emotion that I want to express... I kind of regret starting with it as my first fanfic... That being said, I embrace the challenge and hope to do it a bit of justice! **

**As always, please let me know how I do by reviews or PM!**

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**Who is He?**

Myrtle is having a blast. If ghosts could refract light, she would be beaming. She dives down toilets, spins up faucets, whirls out of drains, and grins from ear to ear as she reports more and more damage.

Somehow in her ghostliness she's completely impervious to the moods of those around her. Potter is slumped on the ground with his head tilted back against the tiled wall of the bathroom, and each time she pops up, he groans even before she squeals the bad news.

"Ooo! Water, water everywhere!" comes a call echoing within the walls. I barely manage to resist a shiver at the disembodied voice. Myrtle spins elaborately out of the drain of one of the sinks, giggling and looking positively gleeful.

"All the pipes are burst down there! It will take ages to clean up and fix!" she announces in a sing-song voice. Ah, that's why she's high: _ages_ worth of company. I can feel Potter's eyes on me as he groans again, louder than before. The unspoken "you don't have ages" gets awkwardly stuck between us. I keep my eyes trained on Granger and Weasley who are exchanging nervous glances. Oddly interesting…

"We should find out where the water is coming from first," I say slowly, gauging their reactions, "that way we can block the source, fix it, and prevent further damage. After that a few basic drying spells… Granger? Weasel?" They both look at me sharply and shift around on their feet.

"Harry," Granger starts, ignoring me with a grimace, "this may have been the result of what happened in the Chamber of Secrets after we destroyed the… water came rushing in."

"That makes sense. There was a lot of anger… things tended to break… Maybe some pipes exploded." Potter finally finishes his secretive and nonproductive thought and stands up. I refuse to show any recognition of this pathetic secrecy.

"We'll have to go to the source. Where else do we start from?" I say. No one else is taking a proactive stance against this mess. Weasley and Granger look like they just want to go back to snogging as they were when we found them. I can understand Myrtle's glee, now that that's over. Weasley shoots me a resentful look for assuming leadership.

"Harry, what do you think?" he asks pointedly, looking past me. I scoff internally. Obviously Potter couldn't form a coherent thought, yet Weasley relies on him. Even Crabbe and Goyle weren't this submissive.

Crabbe.

Pretend I didn't think that— move on, don't hear any screams, nothing to see or hear.

Potter rubs his head looking too tired to express his thoughts, even if he has any. He approaches the sinks, searching for something, then starts whispering creepily. With ancient creaking, the sinks pull apart.

I'm becoming an expert at not letting chills down my spine.

Potter looks down into a tunnel that is revealed, gives a shrug, and starts descending. He glances back in an afterthought to see if we're following. So _this _is the infamous entrance to the Chamber of Secrets? Rusty sinks in the abandoned girls' lavatory? How horribly disappointing.

"Harry— " Granger starts, but Potter gives her a meaningful look.

"Malfoy's right, we need to start somewhere. Though if you have a better idea…" he trails off as though hopeful. She shakes her head.

"No, I wish I did though." Potter gives her what's becoming his trademark melted look.

"I'll stay with her here!" Weasley jumps in, obviously imagining himself in shining armor, "We can get help if anything goes wrong." I hope, for the sake of humanity, that even he realizes how pompous that was. Even Granger shoots him a look of annoyance. I open my mouth for a scathing retort, but it's Potter who snaps back tiredly.

"I know how to cast a Patronus, Ron." Everyone looks at Potter oddly, even his own eyes widen in surprise at his impatience.

"Er- let's just get this over with," he says, trying to brush it off. He continues down the drain after a calling Myrtle. I swiftly follow him, getting used to this whole mysterious passage thing. Close behind me, Weasley grabs Granger's hand and they follow.

"_Lumos_" Granger casts, just as Potter and I jump down blindly into waist high water. I gasp at the unexpected cold. My eyes adjust to the light and I take in the rounded walls.

"Are we… in a pipe?" I ask, much less coolly than I intended after hearing my own echo. Weasley snickers as he jumps arrogantly down into water, then helps Granger down. Potter starts laughing too and I turn to glare at him. My glare, however, is smothered by the honest mirth shining from his expression.

"Your face!" he exclaims, not a hint of mocking in his tone.

"Malfoys never get a little wet?" Weasley says acidly. I don't even dignify him with a glare, but I notice Potter does, losing his smile. Before Weasley notices, there's a splash, followed shortly by Potter's head resurfacing farther away. He laughs at our expressions.

"Come on!" he calls, swiping his hair out of his face. He shakes off his robes and banishes them past us up to the bathroom with a flick of his wand. I honestly don't know if I'm more in awe at how at ease he is or how brilliantly his eyes are flashing. How can anyone look this comfortable and this radiant swimming in the _sewer_? Let alone _swimming._

Next to me Weasley grins, strips and banishes his robes, and dives in, making sure to splash me on his way. I growl, having no more dry robes to wipe off my face with. He comes up next to Granger who has walked ahead.

"Hope on," he says, motioning for her to grab his shoulders. She grins.

"_Depulso_" she says, banishing her discarded robes. She clasps her arms eagerly around Weasley's neck and he takes off as though dragging a body through water is a piece of bloody cake. Hm.

Nothing to it, right?

Against my better Malfoy judgment, I force my body down into the water, then quickly kick out while simultaneously beating my arms.

Wrong. All wrong.

I come up a spluttering, half-drowned mess. Guess I'll just walk.

"Might help if you take your robes off. If you actually can swim, that is," says Potter's familiarly amused voice from surprisingly close by. He's floating on his back in front of me, looking up at the ceiling with unconcealed amusement.

"Are you asking me to disrobe, Potter?" I sneer with Snape worthy scorn as my legs charge forward, attacking at the water in my way. He glides easily ahead of me, eyes still shining with laughter as I get more and more out of breath.

"You have two choices, Malfoy," he says after a bit, "Either banish your robes and I'll pull you," I snort at that, "Or get lost in the tunnels and rejoin us when you're an old soggy man, because I'm not waiting till then." He stops floating and faces me, eyes narrowed in a challenge. I look back, debating returning, but already the entrance is lost.

"You did sign up for this," he reminds me tauntingly, "Something about redemption…?" Now he's just relishing my discomfort.

Fine, see if I care. I banish my robes angrily and shove my wand in the pocket of my jeans. I pause, trying to brainstorm other solutions while Potter taps his shoulders patronizingly. Don't I know any floating spells?

Cursing myself to eternity for ever agreeing to this, I reach out, but quickly withdraw my blackened arm. I glance up, making sure Granger and Weasley are too far ahead to have seen it. Potter wastes no time, quickly casting a concealment charm making my arm appear blurred, but otherwise normal. He raises an eyebrow as if to say, "_now _are you ready?"

"You're going to regret this, Potter. I'm not light," I say, taking comfort in that slight retribution. He just smirks and says, "I'm not weak." Before I can rethink the insanity of this, I grasp his shoulders and force myself to lift up my feet. The instant I do, he takes off, almost making me shriek. I dig my fingers tight into his collarbone and start thrashing around with my legs trying to find a balance.

"Stop moving! It's not helping!" Potter shouts, "Just try to float." I stop kicking, but dig deeper with my fingers to make up for it. And suddenly it feels like I'm flying as Potter, being his infuriatingly lucky self, finds a stream and we are moving fast enough to pass the Weasel and his mate. It feels like I've been demoted from co-victor to super hero's cape as I'm dragged along by nothing but my fingers.

I focus on maintaining my death grip on Potter's revolving shoulders. With his muscles clenching and unclenching and water rushing past, the threat of slipping is real and terrifying.

"Gah! Detach your nails!"

"And drown? I think not!" I say digging deeper. Potter winces and scoffs at the same time.

"The water is not deep enough, and Merlin! You're drawing blood!" He stops swimming abruptly, causing me to crash into him. He flounders around unsteadily, apparently not reaching the bottom. For a second I'm sure he's just pranking, but realize he's not after searching for the ground myself. It's all I can do not to hug my arms hard around his neck in panic.

"Well, maybe up ahead," he says uncertainly.

"You're joking. The-Boy-Who-Lived-and-Saved-the-Fucking-World only to drown in the sewers of Hogwarts," I say, perfectly masking my terror with scorn.

"Shut up, will you? The least you could do is kick," he snaps. I tentatively start to kick out my legs, but they get caught in Potter's and we both go underwater, kicking and struggling for control. My first instinct is to fight the water with crazy random kicks and punches. It's not working, however, especially not now that I've pushed away the Savior with my thrashing. Looking up, then down, I see I'm closer to the bottom than the surface. How did it get this deep? Where's Po—?

Potter's arm hooks around my chest and jerks me upwards.

"Would you just… Quit squirming!" he barks as soon as we resurface.

"Stop touching me then!" I splutter, trying to will myself still. He grabs my arm and slings it harshly around his shoulder while I cough.

"What, is me saving your arse making you uncomfortable?" he taunts.

"What about sewer diving is _comfortable,_" I retort, as though this whole thing were entirely his fault. He ignores me and calls ahead to Myrtle.

"How far till the Chamber?!" In response comes just far off cackling that we cannot distinguish over our own thrashing.

"Bubble-head charm, boys," calls Granger in her infamous are-you-wizards-or-not tone. Her head, wrapped in an oversized bubble, is floating past us to our left. A flash of orange below the surface gives away Weasley underneath her. She grins at us and waves.

"Race you," she says, and her head is pulled under water.

"I'm beginning to see how you've escaped death so long," I mutter.

"Brilliant. Can you reach my wand? Right pocket," Potter asks tightly, by now struggling to keep us afloat. Spurred on by competition and basic will to live, I move my left hand slowly off Potter's shoulder and down his side, not risking letting go completely. His waist is firm, which makes me feel a bit safer. He squirms a bit at my touch and I realize it's probably not appropriate to have my hand on his waist, however comforting it is. I quickly move on till I feel his jeans and pry my hand into his pocket before this can get any more awkward.

"Hold still," I say, my grip on his shoulder slipping the further I reach. I grasp his wand and yank it out.

My grip slips from the force and I don't have the chance to scream before the water is in my lungs. A hand grasps my elbow and jerks me to the surface, a coughing mess once again.

"You really can't swim a stroke," I hear Potter mutter to himself, "Here." He takes his wand and points it at me, then himself, creating bubbles around our faces. With a tug, he pulls me back underwater.

And I'm not drowning. Fascinating. The water is clear, though it's only light enough to see a meter's length. Before I can take in my new surroundings, Potter is prying my grip off of his shirt. He makes exaggerated motions with his arms and legs, demonstrating for me to copy. I roll my eyes. He really thinks he can teach me to swim?

Well I'm not sinking, so that's something. Maybe if I kick—

Potter zooms off after freeing himself, smiling behind at me through his bubble mask as though it's some big joke, now that it's not life-threatening. Angrily I kick out, surprised at how it projects me forward. Ha! I combine it with scooping arm motions like Potter's and find myself actually scooting somewhat forward. I find the bigger my motions, the farther I go.

It's gloriously easy! I'm almost caught up with Potter! He looks back and laughs, as though mocking my thoughts, before kicking a burst of water in my face and speeding forward. The jerk!

I race after him, kicking harder and flapping my arms ridiculously in comparison to his smooth, gliding gestures. He wasn't lying when he said he isn't weak.

Ok, so maybe this isn't as easy as I thought. I'm pushing with everything I've got to keep up with him.

What? Where is he? I swear he was just—

Whoa! My body is projected into air and I have just enough time to take in a room large enough to rival the Great Hall before gravity kicks in and I'm falling downward into a pool of water. Remembering something about surface tension, I keep my legs straight and fall in feet first.

The first thing I see when I recover from the shock enough to open my eyes is a brilliantly gold fish swimming right by me. Where is this light source coming from anyway? Then a pair of shining green eyes floats towards me. Aren't they missing something? Ah, yes. Potter's odd round glasses zoom back onto his face at a summoning charm. He smiles foolishly at me, laughing, I think, because we're still alive. His body spins around in a summersault, enjoying the still, deep water.

I can't help but smile, if only in relief. It's odd, being so near and yet unable to insult each other. Am I sharing a moment with _Potter? _The thought shakes off my grin.

Above us, the pipe we came out of is pouring out water like a waterfall. I look up just in time to see Weasley and Granger falling down. They are headed right on top of Potter who is still doing childish acrobatics.

In an instant my wand is out and I blast water at Potter, forcing him out of harm's way. He spins back head over heels and when he catches himself, he has his wand out and eyes trained on me shrewdly. His expression changes to confusion as he takes in Granger and Weasley's presence in the spot where he was just occupying. The two are laughing, oblivious to us on either side.

Potter's head tilts as he gazes at me in what I can only describe as wonderment. What's the big deal? He's saved hundreds of lives. Can't I just nudge _one_ in the right direction without being looked at like that? Merlin, does everyone have such low standards of me?

Myrtle's voice breaks up our short lived stare-off and we both quickly shove away our wands that were still aimed at each other.

"Yay! We're in the Chamber of Seeecrets!" she shrills, floating up to us as though the water were mere air. How regrettable that ghosts are unaffected by water, including their voices. No one else can say anything but garbled noises.

"Draco, isn't it wonderful! Just what you were begging me to show you last year! I really wanted to show you sooner! You were so desperate! Do you know, I used to believe only _girls _could weep like that!" She spins around me giddily, absolutely oblivious to how much I'm wishing her a second, more permanent death. Weasley gapes at me and I try to decide which would have more desirable, long-lasting effects, a blinding hex or a lip swelling jinks.

Unfortunately, before either is realized, Potter starts swimming upwards and Weasley follows with Granger. It takes me a lot longer to inch my way up, but with ten times the effort. Even using a few blasting spells to force me up, the others are at the surface long before me. I'm gasping by the time my head finally joins the rest. Might need to work on technique. Potter offers me a shoulder which I grasp, very much needing.

"What's— Granger doing?" I pant out, following Weasley and Potter's trained gaze. The witch is climbing out of the water onto a ledge on the wall.

"I don't know, I don't like it," Weasley whimpers as we watch her gain her balance on the narrow ledge and start walking forward.

"If she falls she'll just land in water," Potter says, a bit uncertainly, "We sent Myrtle to search around the wall for a way out, assuming this water is from the Black Lake…" Granger reaches a dip in the wall and swiftly rounds it, out of our view.

"Oi!" Weasley shouts and dives under water to chase after her. A second later there's a bright flash of white light that comes from the place she went into. A splash follows and there she appears, floating in a boat. She waves at us as though nothing at all just happened. Potter grins and swims towards her, pulling my arm. We reach the boat and without warning he gives me a shove, pushing me up. Do I look like a weak rag doll? I kick extra wildly as I scramble my way aboard, hoping to land one in his face.

"How could there just happen to be a boat in there?" I ask before giving a final push and plopping in. Do these people even realize how unnaturally lucky they are?

"There wasn't! I transfigured it out of the wall where it caved in!" Granger scoffs indignantly as she reaches to the other side to help up the reappeared Weasley. I do the same for Potter who looks disappointingly unkicked.

"Thanks," he grunts, hoisting his legs over rather gracefully. He pushes his body in and sits down at the front end, shaking his hair and arms dry. I feel a sudden need to look away and quickly take a seat on the opposite end facing him. I'm afraid he'll bring up what Myrtle said… that's probably why... right?

Weasley and Granger abruptly fall between us, laughing and gasping at the effort it took to get him aboard. They look disgustingly ready to snog before Potter coughs, pretending to adjust his glasses.

"You're incredible, Hermione," Potter says as they quickly sit up. He's not exaggerating. This boat is large enough to fit all four of us comfortably and she was able to transfigure it? She gives a pleased shrug, blush fading.

"Stone to wood transfiguration is one of the more basic forms," she recites, playing humble while slipping in facts we _obviously _should know.

"Hate to be the killjoy here," I say, "but do we have any means of locomotion? Because we seem to be floating quite aimlessly." She looks behind her, shooting me a petulant look.

"Why I would practice boat transfiguration without _oars_? Hand me your shirts, gentlemen," she commands.

_"_Excuse me?" I watch utterly shocked as both Potter and Weasley slip out of their wet shirts and pass them to her without a so much as a heartbeat. Does she have them under imperious or do they really have zero sense of dignity? Quick as a wink, she transfigures them into long oars and passes them back to their respective owners. They all look at me expectantly. Great, now I have an audience.

"You couldn't have learned how to do that with a shoe or something?" I say, sounding slightly intimidated now. I train my eyes on Weasley's freckled back, ignoring the intense green eyes.

"I couldn't find anything in common between a shoe and an oar. It's kind of necessary to start from a commonality," she explains.

"Oh and you could with a _shirt?_"

"They're both flat," she says flatly, holding out her hand expectantly. GAH! This is ridiculous! If not facing death with this so-called "Golden Trio," I'm facing something utterly degrading! Weasley rolls his eyes and turns back to start rowing, exasperated.

"Don't be such a prude," he lectures.

"If you'd rather not row…" Potter starts, patronizingly gently. In one swift gesture I pull off my shirt and thrust it into Granger's hand.

"Thank you," she smiles triumphantly, before her eyes land on my shoulder scars from Greyback and then on the scar across my chest and looped around my stomach. She quickly transforms my shirt and hands me the oar, then turns back around, pretending she didn't see anything.

I can feel Potter's eyes on me as I join him and Weasley in rowing. I concentrate on steering us along the wall and balancing the two sides. _This_ I know how to do.

Merlin, why doesn't he just turn around!

"I found it! I found the exit up ahead!" Myrtle wails, flying at us at full speed. For once I'm grateful to hear her voice as Potter finally turns his head away to look where she's pointing. I move out of the way just in time as she squeezes onto my seat. She makes a show of looking me up and down, then cuddles against me. I shudder and pathetically try to throw her off, only succeeding in freezing my only undamaged arm.

"My, my, Draco!" she purrs, then sees my scars and sits back folding her arms with a devious grin.

"Where'd you get that loopy scar, Draco?" she asks deliberately loud, as though she doesn't already know. I ignore her and scan the wall. I find a jagged looking archway up ahead that is letting in orange sunlight.

"We'll fit through there?" I ask, trying to distract Myrtle. Potter's eyes are on me again. He gives a curt nod.

"If you ask me," Myrtle continues, despite most definitely _not_ being asked, "I'd say it was from some sort of spell. It probably caused a lot of blood."

"Shut it, Myrtle," I say tightly, trying to remind myself that strangling a ghost is not possible. Just keep rowing. The faster we get there, the sooner she'll leave. She can't haunt outside of the castle.

"Wouldn't it be awful if it were cast in a bathroom, when your defenses were down, when you were _vulnerable_?" she goads on, eyeing Potter. Weasley and Granger catch on to Myrtle's tone and turn to look at me questioningly. I look straight ahead at the orange light.

Just… a few… more… strokes…

"Well! I'll see you all at dinner!" she says in a tone all too pleased with herself. She flies away just as we all duck down and glide out of the Chamber of Secrets and into the Great Lake.

Everyone is silent for a long while, taking in the sunset over the lake and remembering only yesterday, the battle that was waged under similar colors. If front of me, I see a tear slide down the side of Weasley's silhouetted face. Granger pulls him close and he stops rowing, burying his face in her shoulder. I wonder who he lost. Considering the size of his family, probably more than one. I meet Potter's melted looking eyes over Weasley's bended body. His look doesn't harden, but instead looks even sadder. He looks pointedly at my stomach scar as if to apologize for it.

Sectumsempra is a spell I will curse till the day I die, and because of that, it saved my life. It was the only spell I could think of off the top of my head that stood a chance against Greyback's werewolf defenses.

Potter and I row in perfect unison, making hardly a ripple on the water. His body is outlined perfectly by the light and I can't help but marvel at the flow of his muscles as he leans away from me, and then back towards me as he rows. I look away quickly, over the lake, trying to think of some way to break this moment. There's too much _feeling_ too soon after being numb.

"We should probably be marginally concerned about a Giant Squid attack," I comment unconvincingly, in a tone that could have said "looks like rain" just as easily. It succeeds, however, in getting Weasley to straighten up and start rowing. Granger wipes her face.

"No, it's a friendly squid," she says absently. Again, we fall into silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Mine, strangely, revolving around the boy who I don't know what to do with. My past enemy is now my- what? Savior, yes, and not only mine. Keeper, with his insane vow to help me cure my curse... that needs to be fixed. My "co-victor" according to the warped media messages- how revolting. But I mean, who is he to me? And why am I even thinking about him? Why do I care? Why am I looking at him and _why _is he looking at me.

Why do I want to know what he's thinking?

Why do I want to know him at all?


	13. The Savior's Offer

**The Savior's Offer**

"Dumbledore!" Potter shouts, and my heart skips a beat. I whirl around to where he's looking, only to find an oddly decent looking gargoyle. Just a gargoyle... I try to curse him angrily, but my throat is dry. Breathe.

"Chocoballs? Jelly slugs? Gut twisters? Sour spells? Gobblin glime?"

"You dragged me all the way up here to shout sweets at a gargoyle?" I cut in as the candy Potter comes up with starts getting more and more nauseating. We just ate! He shoots me an exasperated glare.

"It usually works," he accuses, as though my presence is changing his luck— not farfetched.

"_What _usually works?"

"What, you've never been to the headmaster's office?" he asks, surprised, gesturing at the gargoyle.

"That's head_mistress_'s office now, Mr. Potter," comes the unmistakable, curt voice of Professor McGonagall from around the corner before I have a chance to reply with a snarky comment about my immaculate academic record.

Potter turns red and looks at his feet, like a little first year caught out after curfew and not at all like someone who knocked the darkest wizard of all time flat on his back. He seems to shrink, making himself appear shorter than the elderly witch.

"Professor, I was wondering if we could speak with Dumbledore's portrait," he says, miraculously stutter-free, "The last password was Dumbledore, I believe? It doesn't seem to be working…"

"My passwords change when the best witch or wizard changes," she says, matter-of-factly, but with a hardly detectible glimmer of mirth. Potter doesn't catch on. At all.

"Erm- Snape?" he guesses lamely, after an awkward pause. Unbelievable. McGonagall seems to find his ignorance endearingly funny rather than bloody pathetic. Only Gryffindors.

"Potter," I snap, and just like that the gargoyle spins around, revealing a set of spiral stairs. His eyes widen in understanding and his face reddens. He glances as McGonagall for permission and she nods.

"Be my guest." Potter motions me to follow and races up the steps, two at a time, as though he's climbed them a thousand times before. Well, he probably actually has.

The office is so cluttered and colorful that it takes me a second to find him once I make it. I approach the desk he sits at cautiously, eyeing the painting of Dumbledore that he's talking to.

"Draco, my dear boy!" the portrait exclaims as I sit down. I shudder. Talking to portraits of dead people is absolutely absurd. Talking to portraits of dead people who you practically murdered is just _wrong_.

"Why are we here?" I hiss at Potter, keeping my eyes trained on the portrait's gleaming eyes as though he is going to burst out of his frame and swallow me whole.

"To ask about the curse," Potter replies without whispering. I almost clap my hand over his mouth childishly. I glance behind but McGonagall is in a far corner talking with a portrait herself.

"Would you keep it down?" I growl. Potter rolls his eyes and starts to exaggeratedly whisper at the portrait.

"Professor, we were wondering about the curse that you had." The portrait give a blank expression, eyes twinkling as he cocks his head.

"On your hand," Potter qualifies, "The blackness?" The portrait shakes his head amused, holding up both spindly hands to show their perfection. If I were being honest, I might say I was a little disappointed. Potter, however, looks confused.

"So you don't know how you died?"

"Of course I do, my boy," the portrait answers fluidly, eyebrows rising, "Professor Snape killed me on the Astronomy Tower."

"Only because you had asked him to," Potter says, stupidly. I stand quickly, pulling him with me.

"He doesn't know," I emphasize.

"I asked him to kill me?" the portrait repeats, looking aghast.

"Oh, thanks anyway, Professor," mumbles Potter, turning towards me, "I don't understand. Why doesn't he know?"

"If the portrait knew, Snape's position as a spy could have been compromised," I respond, slowly so he can comprehend. Remarkably, he still looks confused.

"But how could he not know— "

"Portraits only know as much as they are taught," says a voice from the corner where McGonagall is. We both look around to see a shiny bald head peeking out from behind an easel. Ah, so Potter didn't even understand the fundamentals of portrait making.

"I'm sorry if Dumbledore doesn't know whatever it is you think he should. I warned Dumbledore to spend more time with him. He practically forgot he had a portrait at all in his last year," the bald man says in a heavy Russian accent. He shakes his head morosely and disappears again behind the easel.

"He _was_ busy," McGonagall says coldly. She is sitting in front of the easel on an elaborate red chair, one that is in every headmaster portrait. The hidden man chuckles.

"I'm glad I got that side of you, Minerva. Fiercely defensive of Dumbledore. Perfect!" he exclaims triumphantly, splatters of paint flying out from behind the canvas. McGonagall glowers at him.

"Are you being painted, Professor?" Potter asks, with brilliant deducing skills.

"Indeed she is, Mr. Potter, indeed!" the man calls out, "I love to paint you too! I usually only paint headmasters of Hogwarts, but I make exception for you!"

"_And _head_mistresses,_" corrects McGonagall, much to the delight of the painter who greedily collects more of her personality.

Potter seems fascinated with the whole project, as though he never realized there was an actual _painter_ behind the portraits. Board, I look around the emporium of an office. Magical gadgets of all ranges of value lay around on shelves and pedestals. Even some Muggle contraptions are mixed in. Art, both magical and non-magical of all dimensions and completely unorganized by color are covering every inch of wall space. It would take a lifetime and more to collect all the items in this room, and it would take years to explore completely. Something tells me both Snape and McGonagall didn't have time to redecorate.

Wait— Snape?

My eyes flash around the wall of portraits, searching for the familiar sleek black hair and hooked nose. He's not there.

"Where's Snape's portrait?" I blurt out, interrupting a detailed explanation the painter is adamantly giving Potter. They all blink at me.

"Considering the way Snape abandoned his post, it is not honorable to include his portrait on this wall," the man says stiffly.

"Not _honorable?!_" I shout. At the same time Potter shouts, "What Snape did was for the safety of Hogwarts!"

Professor McGonagall swiftly rises, robes billowing, and looks over the easel at the cowering man.

"I agree. I demand you release his portrait," she states firmly.

"But- he- I had so little time to work on it! He hardly spent any time teaching it!" the man splutters. McGonagall doesn't move, neither does Potter's frown.

"Oh, alright! But give me time! I need to gather information and collect memories. It's nearly impossible to create a masterpiece worthy of my art when the person is not posing!" he grumbles, slouching behind the easel.

"Very well, you have a week," grants McGonagall, "Meanwhile, you can put mine on hold." The painter appears aghast, standing sharply, gathering up his tools in a huff and stalking out on legs much shorter than I anticipated. It creates a waddling effect that has Potter cracking a smile.

"Thank you, Professor," exclaims Potter. McGonagall shakes her head.

"No, thank _you. _I've needed a break from this," she says, rubbing her neck, "By the way, how is the repair going in the dungeons?" Potter glances at me before responding.

"We found the water source. However, according to Myrtle there are many broken pipes. We were wondering, do you have a map of the plumbing system of Hogwarts that we could use?"

"Oh, I'm sure we have something of that nature in the archives. Wait right here," she says, and starts up a flight of stairs I hadn't even noticed amongst the clamor of the office.

"Malfoy," Potter calls me from a far side of the room where a glowing light is making him appear ghostly. For some reason I feel pulled towards the swirling, magical light. Potter steps out of the way as I approach, letting me look down into the source. A Pensieve. I give him a questioning look, barely being able to peel my eyes away from the moving silver fluid. It's so beautiful.

"I thought you might want to see this," he says, pushing my head down towards it. I doubt I put up any resistance, until I realize I'm falling head first through the air.

Memories flow in and out around me directly from Snape himself, as though he is still alive and I am merely performing legilimency. The pain of knowing he is not hurts the most. All his feelings are so real I can taste them. But they aren't, not anymore. All the love he held is no longer real. And he could love and love and love and love and love, and it made no difference. Lily died. Potter had to die.

_What is the point of love then? _

Just as the bitterness is consuming me, I am being sucked away from the memories. When I can see again, I'm looking up at hanging plants and banners on the ceiling. I force myself up onto my elbows. Everything seems darker than when I left it.

"Malfoy?" My ears start working once I set eyes on Potter kneeling next to me and shaking my shoulders. I frown, feeling like I know him better, now that I know one of his secrets, something he went through. I remember what he told me before he was headed to the slaughter: "I have reasons, real reasons." Because he carried a part of Voldemort's soul, he had to die. Now I know.

I shove off his arms and quickly stand up, brushing off my robes.

"You could have warned me," I say in a tone much less harsh than I meant to sound. I should probably catch my breath, that should help.

"Sorry, I just thought you'd want to—"

"Yeah."

"Er- Professor McGonagall gave me a copy of the plumbing system," he says, after a moment. He hands me a scroll and I tuck it into my robes, slowly registering what he is talking about. Looking around the room, I see McGonagall's already gone.

"So, you see why I think Dumbledore had your curse?" he says cautiously, gauging my reaction with those piercing green eyes. Where do they get their light from?

I nod and turn towards the door, muttering something about going back to the dungeons. He follows me down the stairs.

"So, maybe we should give that Pensieve to the painter. He won't find that side of Snape anywhere else," Potter ventures, cautiously as though not to set me off. I try to shake off any appearance of vulnerability.

"That's because Snape wouldn't have shared that with anyone else, including his portrait," I say, finding my natural harsh voice.

"True," Potter concedes. We walk in silence down the hall for awhile before he tries again.

"Well, in a week we'll be able to ask Snape's portrait about the curse and hopefully he'll have an answer." I suppress a groan at the "_we"_ and "_hopefully"_ in his statement.

"I suppose that works for you, Potter," I say acidly, "Is that how you put it to Longbottom before he let you go to your death? 'Well, _hopefully_ I'll see you again, mate,' and then, _somehow_, you lived. Yeah, that doesn't work for me. If I have _hope_, I end up like Snape."

I stop at the top of the stairs and turn on him, waiting for him to walk away in the opposite direction to the Gryffindor tower where his friends are no doubt waiting with all sorts of _hopes _and _wishes_ and _love. _ He shakes his head, eyes narrowed as though trying to read where my outburst is coming from.

"How did you do it?" I blurt out, "Did you really die? You were a horcrux." There goes my bid for indifference. Potter's eyes close for a macrosecond. He probably didn't realize I would understand that bit of information in the Pensieve.

"Yeah, I'm still kind of processing it. But yes, I did die. I spoke with Dumbledore," he says, slightly shakily. I want to find out more, but it's obvious he isn't going to go into it on his own, so I fake apathy and shrug.

"Goodnight, Potter," I say deliberately, and turn down the stairs.

"Wait, I'm coming with you," he says, apparently unable to take the hint.

"_Why? _Don't you have _friends_?" I bite out scornfully, emphasizing the fact that I am _not _one of them.

"I'll help you make that potion again. It might be an everyday thing, so get used to me."

"I don't need you. You suck at potions," I say shortly, "Go home to your tower of happiness and hope."

"That's just it," says Potter, catching my arm and forcing me to look at him, "I don't want to go back there and act like everything is settled now that Voldemort is dead. Not since I know it's not true for… some people. Your parents are facing Azkaban and you are dying from a curse left by Voldemort."

My wand is out in an instant, pressed against his chest.

"My parents will _not _go to Azkaban and do I look like I'm dying _now_? Let me explain something to you, Potter," I hiss, "In war there are winners and there are losers. The winners do not "help" the losers, especially not when the losers are _marked dark wizards. _ I don't want your pity. I don't want any more fucking memories. And I most definitely do not want your help. Leave me the fuck alone, or I'll show you how I curse without leaving a trace."

He grimaces at me, not retreating an inch.

"I won your wand's allegiance. I don't think it can hurt me." Wrong answer. I shove him back and he stumbles hard against the wall. He looks at me dazed and I'm tempted to throw in a punch, but his hands are up in surrender.

"Alright! Just think about your parents."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" I shout, baited.

"You didn't end up reading the paper, did you? Their trial is in two days. I can testify for them. I'm the hero, after all. Should be a get out of jail free card," he says shrugging and looking down. He looks as happy about being a hero as one would about an arranged marriage to a house-elf.

How could I be so stupid? Of course I should have looked at the paper. I should have spent today in search for evidence to use in court. Two days! I only have tomorrow to form a plan!

"Why would you do that?" I ask, feigning calm.

"Your mother did save my life," he says, kicking at a loose brink in the hallway.

"And my father?"

"I don't believe anyone deserves Azkaban." He looks up at me, eyes glowing in the dark hallway. I scoff. I make a pathetic bad guy, I know, but Potter makes an even worse good guy. He doesn't even get the concept of _justice_.

"Look, Draco, it's not just about the promise I made to your mum. I want to help because I didn't before. In sixth year. I should have tried to find out what was going on with you rather than curse you. I'm sorry."

I shake my head at his ridiculous remorse, completely unsure what to say. He takes a step towards me.

"Dumbledore offered to help you on the Astronomy Tower. He can't now, but I can."

"How do you know that?" I hiss, looking up at him sharply. Dumbledore's plea rings in my ears like it has every night since.

_Please, let me help you. Draco… a boy. Years ago. All the wrong choices. Let me help you. Please._

"I was there," I barely hear Potter over the pleading voice of Dumbledore. I cover my ears like a maniac.

"Draco?" Potter's arms are on my shoulders trying to steady me.

"Fuck off!" I cry, shoving him away again so that this time he lands on his ass. Without a second glance at his expression, I take off.

_Draco, Draco, please. Let me help. I want to help. I'm sorry. Draco. _

With each step as I run I can hear Dumbledore chanting my name. Or is it Potter?

As soon as I reach Snape's quarters I grab the bowl of floo powder and hurl myself into the fireplace. I throw down the powder and shout "Malfoy Manor" at the green flames.

* * *

In retrospect, the manor was probably the last place on earth I should have gone, for sanity's sake. The whole place is blown apart on the inside, most likely done by an escaped Death Eater throwing a tantrum over my betrayal. There's no longer any way to go upstairs as both staircases are quite literally nonexistent and apparating to an unsupported level is probably not smart.

This house represents everything I am. I grew up in it, based my self worth off of its splendor, called it home. People who care for my miserable existence lived here, were tortured here. The Dark Lord marked me here. Here, people died and fear reigned.

Like me, it was marked as the Dark Lord's property and, as a result, it was destroyed.

Memories choke me, even from the smell. Most people don't realize, but dark magic leaves behind a very distinguishable smell. I can point out the exact spot where I stood in the entrance hall when I realized that. I can also show where I first witnessed the Cruciatus. And where I first performed it. I was in that room when I heard my father's screams for the first time. I can remember the sound perfectly, of each unique scream. I hear it all.

_Try again, Draco. Forcefully. Try again. Mean it. Again… Very good, Draco. _

Voldemort's slippery, high voice infects the wood pores of this house. His shadow lurks around every destroyed wall. This house is haunted. My home is a ghost stop on the road to the fiery inferno of hell.

After hours of digging through papers strewn about my father's office, I still haven't found anything that would de-incriminate my father. The worst part is that I haven't even found anything _in_criminating, meaning the Manor was most likely already searched for evidence. Perhaps, by some miracle, it was someone who was not collecting it but destroying it.

Who am I kidding. We've no doubt lost everything. Malfoy means none of what it used to. No doubt there isn't a single galleon left in Gringotts under the Malfoy name.

By sunrise, my head is about to implode on itself if I don't get away from the smell and the voices. Tossing yet another worthless pile of papers aside, I apparate to Diagon Alley's only hostel, Brews and Stews. I quickly pull up my hood and duck through the door.

I pass the witch at the entrance of the ancient lodge two galleons and a knobby finger passes me back a room number and a key. I look around, find the staircase and climb it to a chorus of creaking. Dust coats my hand and I quickly withdraw it from the railing.

I suppose if I weren't so tired I would be disgusted by this place. As it is, I can barely find and unlock my door. Even in the damp, moldy smelling room, I can still smell the dark magic. It must be on me. I stumble the three steps from the doorway into the bathroom and turn on the spout in the slimy shower. The lamp flickers softly, then goes dim after I light it. Sighing, I quickly cast _lumos_. I slip out of my robes and pull my shirt over my head.

Seeing my arm in the half rust covered mirror makes me shudder more than the cold. It's horrendous. The blackness looks like a nest of actual living creatures. I consider taking a knife to it to scrape some off, but something tells me that it's not just on the surface. At least it hasn't spread past my wrist.

Shuddering again, I slip off my trousers and turn to step in the shower.

Wait. My stomach drops with an audible thud. There's a black spot, on my hip. Tentatively, I touch it, withdrawing at lightning speed and grabbing my wand.

My voice gets louder and louder until I'm all but screeching the slowing spell at the new growth. Gasping, I drop my wand and step in the shower. I run my hands through my hair, forcing myself to focus. Shower, sleep, Gringotts, Ministry. Just make it through today.

Just as I think it, I hear my door being slammed open and a gruff voice that I instantly recognize calls out.

It's at times like these when I really hope there are gods, just because _some_one needs to laugh at the irony called my life.

I slam off the water and grab my wand, spelling my clothes back on. I count three lumbers before the bathroom door squeaks open, tantalizingly slow. Goyle leans in the doorway, looking me up and down with what can only be described as pure, undefiled loathing.

"Hello, Malfoy," he sneers.

"I don't want to hurt you," I say calmly, angling my wand at him. His sneer just gets wider and more warped and he makes a show of dropping his wand.

"I know your weaknesses, you fink," he says, before his leg comes out of nowhere and knocks me to the ground. His hand grabs my hair and he throws my head against the wall repeatedly, then kicks up into my face. I hear my nose crack and spit out blood before I have to swallow it.

I look up, blearily, and a hand meets my gaze, knocking me cold and sending my vision black as night.

* * *

I remember the feeling of apparating. I remember random scenes. People looking down at me with disgust. The bottom of Goyle's foot. Shouting, lots of shouting. And my own cries.

How much time passed?

"He's awake, father," Goyle's voice announces in a pleased tone, before I realize I'm conscious. I'm propped up against an ice cold wall, in a room I've never been in before. My body feels broken everywhere but my legs, which are numb.

"Bring him out here, Gregory," a voice commands over the ringing in my ears.

_Where's my wand?_ I think dazedly as I'm dragged out of the room into a much brighter one by my shirt and thrust at the feet of… I struggle to my feet and look up, shading my eyes with my elbow, into the deep-set eyes of Goyle Sr.

"I don't mean to interrupt Gregory's fun," the cloaked man says, beginning to circle me, "I'll let him get back to it in just a bit. I just wanted to see this ingrate face to broken face. Tell me, did you really think you would get away with turning against the Dark Lord?"

He takes a step closer to me and grabs my left arm, viciously yanking it above my head and pinning it against the wall.

"Did you think, _Draco, _that you could merely send us all to Azkaban while you soaked up the pleasure life as a _hero_?" he grinds out through a full set of yellow teeth. His breath is as hot on my ear as the blood running down my nose. _What ever possessed me to show up in Diagon Alley? _

"You were honored with the mark," he says, obviously still bitter that I received it and not his son, "And now I'll give you one of my own." My eyes slip closed as I focus on channeling my magic.

"Look at my father when he's talking to you!"

A blow to the gut from red faced Goyle Jr. sends me gasping forward. I brace myself for another blow as Goyle Sr. rips off my sleeve and points his wand at my arm. There's a few seconds pause which is all I need to collect my magic.

I'm about to shout a wandless _relashio _when Goyle falls to his knees in front of me. I blink rapidly, trying to see clearly. Is his head bowed? I'm too stunned to even wipe the blood off my nose.

"Forgive me, I-I did not know," he says, motioning his son to kneel. Goyle Jr. glances at my arm and, reluctantly, follows his father's example. I clench my arm to my chest.

"I will give you gold, here, a thousand galleons. I know it is not enough… More! More will follow, I promise!" Goyle pleads, pulling a small sack out from his robes and pushing it at my feet.

"Please, my lord, forgive us," he adds, bowing lower. My stomach lurches and I struggle not to vomit. My _lord_? I want to ask, but I can't give away my ignorance.

"My wand," is all I can manage to choke out. Obediently, relief flooding his features, both Goyles clamor out of the room and come back like scared chickens with my wand. I grab it from them and they flinch as my grotesque arm nears them.

My blackened, corrupted arm inspires _fear _and _obedience_? _What does that mean_? I thought I was _dying_, not becoming some all powerful demigod!

I numbly heal myself and my clothes, making myself presentable. Straightening up, I grab the pouch of gold from Goyle's hand and shove it into my robes.

"What time is it?" I ask in a bewildered, uncommanding tone. Strangely, they cower further and mutter, "Four in the afternoon." _Fuck_. The Ministry closes in an hour.

Without another word, I apparate in front of the telephone booth entrance to the Ministry.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! The next chapter is The Demon's Request and it is in Harry's PoV. Please leave your thoughts with me! **


	14. The Demon's Request

**The Demon's Request**

"WHAT!?"

The explosion is perfectly expected, but that doesn't make it any less terrifying. It seriously took more courage to tell Ginny I wouldn't make Fred's funeral than any other thing in my whole entire life. I'm not exaggerating, I swear.

I watch as Ginny's features contort into an exact replica of Mrs. Weasley's under the influence of hardcore rage. Right about now, she could burst into flames and I don't think anyone would be able to tell the difference. Seriously. If you don't believe me check out my hands shoved in my robes. I'm trembling.

"AND WOULD YOU CARE TO EXPLAIN WHY NOT!?" she bellows. A chorus of cracking follows: the cleaning house-elves scramming for cover.

Now, the correct answer to that question is "no, not at all," but, being a wise adopted member of the Weasley clan, I lower my eyes and mumble my excuse. It seemed a lot more worthy in my head.

"MALFOY!? YOU WANT TO DITCH FRED'S FUNERAL FOR THE _MALFOYS_!?" Ginny finds room in her expression to appear both furious _and _hurt. She chokes on Fred's name and her eyes glisten with tears through her murderous glare.

"I'm sorry, Gin. It's just- If I don't go the trial today the Malfoys could be sent to Azkaban for life."

"And that bothers you _HOW_?"

"Narcissa Malfoy saved my life. And Draco switched sides," I mutter, knowing she is already aware of that. I'm trying to answer a question I don't really know the answer to. I don't know why I care, I just do.

"Last minute! When they realized they were losing!" she splutters.

"But maybe-"

"That bastard almost KILLED me when I was ELEVEN YEARS OLD!" she screams at the top of her lungs.

I drop my eyes, my capacity for guilt management completely used up. The room is dangerously quiet for a few moments. The air between us goes as thick as pumpkin juice.

"You would choose lifelong enemies over family," she says, with an intense, withering look.

"Ginny… please," I start quietly, people are starting to move upstairs, "Fred's gone, I can't help him. As much as I honor his life, I need to do what I can for those still here. I need to do this."

Her expression goes from one of shock to one of anger to one of hurt. Tears stream out of her eyes. That probably wasn't as sensitive as I meant it to be. Her mouth opens and closes.

Finally she says, very quietly, "They say death reveals who you most loved." She looks at me with dejected contempt before turning around.

"Gin, I—"  
"Don't touch me!" she barks, as though burned by my hand, and walks out.

GAHHH! _Accio_ my heart out and hang it up to dry! I'm a horrible, cruel person. DAMN! DAMN! DAMN!

"Harry? What'd the furniture do to _you_?" Ron's voice stops my foot mid-kick. What the—?

I close my eyes away from the view of the poor loveseat I've just desolated. Great, now I can add volatile to my personality traits of insensitive and disloyal. The stuffing is everywhere, springs are poking out and all four legs are cracked.

I look up at Ron and give him the grimace of a century. He's dressed in his dress robes and his hair looks like he's actually used soap instead of his normal _scourgify_. He cocks his head at me.

Guilt is probably the strongest emotion humans are capable of. I feel like my gut is being rung out like a sponge. Literally.

I wish I could pull a Malfoy and just disappear without an explanation. ...And not come back... Where _is _he?

Ron nudges me in the shoulder and waves his hand in front of my face.

"I- I'm not going," I say to the window. Amazingly, Ron just grunts.

"Yeah, Hermione told me."

"What? But I only just told Ginny." He gives me a look that says: "_Hermione_." Right. Hermione, the goddess of perception.

"Ginny didn't take it very well," I say, sighing and casting _repairo _on the chair.

"Yeah, I didn't either at first. But Hermione explained it to me," says Ron, plopping in the chair I've just fixed and running his hands through his newly washed and fluffy hair.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I get it, mate. It's not that you don't care about… Fred. I know you do. It's just that your priorities are first and foremost helping people. I respect that."

I gape at the face I used to believe belonged to my best mate. As glad as I am that he is learning to be adaptable, it's still sad to see the way the war has changed even one as stubborn and sure hearted as him. Or maybe it's just Hermione's magic. Who knows.

"Although, I don't respect _who_ you are trying to help," he adds bitterly. I sigh, relieved that there are at least some things I can still count on.

"Ron, I feel so lost," I say, not knowing where that came from. He looks at me frowning.

"What do you mean?" I just shake my head, still wondering myself.

"It's this war, mate," says Ron, flopping back against the cushions, "We're all still processing." I try to swallow that explanation, but I don't think it goes down.

Hermione comes down the stairs into the common room and walks up to Ron. She rubs his shoulders from behind the seat.

"Ready to go?" she asks softly. Hermione is exactly what Ron needs to get him through this funeral. Seeing her tender and compassionate look makes me feel slightly less guilty for not going.

Ron nods and stands up drudgingly, as though the weight of Fred's soul is holding him down. Hermione links her arm with his as if to steady him. She looks at me with a small smile and sad eyes. I know I should be used to it by now, but it still kind of freaks me out sometimes the way her eyes say "I know all your secrets."

"Ginny didn't take it so well?"

"How do you know? Am I really that readable?" I ask, kind of annoyed.

"Harry, everyone in Gryffindor tower heard her," Ron explains, with a note of concern for his sister. I nod, knowing that the common knowledge of our argument will just solidify our chances of getting together now. As in no chance. At all.

I quickly shove away and lock the door on any hint of _possible_ relief that comes from that realization.

"She'll get over it," he adds, after Hermione nudges him. I roll my eyes and change the subject.

"So… you will be ok without me?" They both nod encouragingly, making my heart start beating like a normal human again. Overwhelmed, I fling my arms around them both, hoping it conveys all my love and gratitude.

"Harry," Hermione says in my ear, "you need to sound commanding and confident if you want to win the trial. Your fame won't be good enough if you don't sound sure of yourself."

Leave it to Hermione to guess my weakness. I nod and give her my best go at a confident grin.

"Good luck, mate," Ron says solemnly, slapping my back on their way out. It reminds me how much I may need it.

* * *

The court is larger and more intimidating than I remember. The hundreds of witches and wizards that make up the Wizengamot are already seated in high rows surrounding the entire front half of the massive circular courtroom when I peak through the massive doors. They wear matching red robes and hats and are spaced evenly apart, making them look like an organized flock of birds ready to systematically take down dark wizards.

I know it is a good thing. A sign of the return of order from chaos or whatever. But all I can think of is how much they look like vultures.

I don't know what I was expecting. Obviously, having fifty members of the Wizengamot present at my case of underage magic was an extreme exaggeration on Fudge's part. So why did I assume it'd look the same for trials of known murderers?

Getting a matching red robe and hat from Kingsley was like asking for a knut after giving ten thousand galleons. After murdering Voldemort, how could I be refused the chance to be a part of justice, he had said. He practically stripped off my own robes in his eagerness to see me join the Wizengamot. He didn't even ask what my witness would be when I mentioned I would testify for the Malfoy trial. He only gave me a sly grin as though he were indulging me in some personal revenge business.

That twist of guilt in my gut reminds me how my witness will likely be perceived as betrayal. It's funny how that doesn't make me second guess my decision at all.

I try to imagine the same hurt expression Ginny gave me earlier on the face of Kingsley. All I can see in my mind is Malfoy's determined, ferocious face as he tried to leave the dungeons to rescue his parents, still bloodied and clutching his head. Or his smooth step out of the crowd towards Voldemort, not even raising his wand.

If I hadn't glimpsed that stupid, _fearless_ side of Malfoy, would I still be here?

Taking a deep breath and shrugging off whatever thought I don't want to have, I slip through the giant doors just before they crash closed behind Kingsley. I watch as Kingsley regally climbs up into the Minister's chair. Before he sits down he holds up his hand at the crowd in polite acknowledgment.

The crowd is packed tight in the rows and rows of seating both on the ground and raised back in a semi-circle in the surrounding wall facing the Wizengamot. If it hadn't been for the Quidditch World Cup, I would say I didn't even realized that many witches and wizards _existed_.

Kingsley extends his hand out towards me, directing a bazillion number of heads to turn towards me.

"We are humbled to welcome Mr. Harry Potter as the honorary two-hundred and forty-eighth juror in the court of Wizengamot!" he proclaims, causing a very _un_courtly outburst all around the room. I duck my head instinctively and shuffle towards the rows of jurors.

Confidence! Appear confident!

I jerk my head up, but only succeed in knocking off my ridiculous hat. I scramble to pick it up, only to search blindly around for the staircase.

Don't panic, Harry. Relax.

I realize I chased the hat past the staircase and have to back track awkwardly. I can _feel_ the bazillion-times-two eyeballs in the room shinning with amusement at my floundering. Great.

Slow down. Deep breath.

The eyes are staring at the stupid red hat from all sides. I'm almost nervous it will burst into flames in my arms. I climb the stairs searching for a place on the benches that would fit the pattern of the evenly dispersed jurors, at the same time trying to find the right spot for it on my head. I only succeed in shifting my robes too far to the left. I shake them back into place and quickly sit down before anything else can go wrong. I'm probably an eyesore since I'm seated much too close to another juror. What a mess.

Now that I'm probably red enough to blend in with my robes, I look up at the crowd. Much to my surprise, all eyes are _not _on me. Instead most are trained on the man and woman being led into the court room.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy look defeated, there is no other way to put it. Their normally proud shoulders slump and their eyes are drooped as though not only exhausted but also bored by the world. As much as I've distained the Malfoy's, I've always believed their spirits were unbreakable. And now I kind of wish they were.

Lucius's face is shaven, his eyes are no longer bloodshot and he's missing that crazy eyed fear that I saw during the war. But now his head tilts exhaustedly to the side, as though resigned to his fate, and almost glad that it is finally going to be clearly determined. It would be a terrible state to see in someone you love. Possibly worse than the former. At least while full of fear he still had spirit. Now it seems he's just given up.

As soon as I have that thought my eyes dart around the courtroom searching for the pristine white-blond head of his son. I'm sure the Slytherin will be able to keep his cool, but not without a great deal of pain. For some reason I feel a driving need to find him, to make sure he is alright.

I still haven't found him by the time the two Malfoys are seated in the chairs of the accused. Their heads are angled towards each other, finding comfort there. It is oddly beautiful.

"Narcissa Black Malfoy, you are charged with joining and aiding the dark wizard Voldemort with shelter, provisions, and fighting for him," Kingsley pronounces, "For this, you face twenty years in Azkaban."

I've scanned every row across the auditorium from me. I'm now sure he is not here.

"Lucius Malfoy, you are charged with various war crimes, including becoming an elite member of the dark wizard Volemort's army, known as a Death Eater. You are charged with providing him with shelter, provisions, and recruits. You are charged with using all three Unforgivible Curses as well as various tortures and captures. For your crimes, you face the rest of your life in Azkaban."

_Where is Draco? _

By the end of Kinglsey's charges, he is no longer playing the impartial minister. His voice has risen to one of cold rage. People around the court are shaking their heads and frowning in response. Even some jurors are showing their anger. The only people completely unaffected are the Malfoys themselves. They seem to have become embossed into their chairs.

If everyone hates the Malfoys this much, how many more people would be overjoyed to capture and kill their son, war hero or not?

Or, how many uncaptured Death Eaters would want to see him suffer as a traitor?

I gasp out loud, causing every juror in a fifty seat radius to turn to look at me. Even the minister turns and gives me an odd expression. I glance at my feet, only to I realize I'm standing.

What am I thinking? I can't go looking for him now, in the middle of the trial.

"Mr. Potter, do you wish to be our first witness?" Kingsley Shacklebolt asks, his voice still amplified. Mortified, I slowly look up.

"I- I- " I lock my eyes on Narcissa Malfoy, who is starting to raise her head, "I would prefer to go last, actually," I finally say clearly. Kingsley looks puzzled.

"Last is traditionally reserved for the defense," he says quietly so not to humiliate me.

Narcissa's eyes are a shimmering deep gray color that I've only else seen in her son. It's a gray that dances with emotion even when remaining perfectly still. She holds my gaze as though it's her life support.

"I know." The courtroom is once again thrown into an uncourtly uproar until Kingsley bellows "Order! Order!" As the room quiets down, he shoots me a half suspicious look before calling victims to the stand.

It's hard to watch their shivering and squirming under the scrutiny of the Wizengamot without remembering exactly how it felt for me. Like you're a piece of hair in their pumpkin juice.

But the victims seem more scared of the Malfoys. They send darting glances at them every now and then while they squeak out their testimonies. Cruciatus, stolen wealth, murdered family, burnt home, destroyed lives. I try to concentrate but it is blending together. _What is happening to my empathy and why does it only exist while I hold Narcissa's gaze?_

She frowns after daring a look around the courtroom. I know she is asking me the question I've been asking myself. Where is Draco.

I _know_ he wouldn't miss this for his life. His life… don't go there, Harry.

"Thank you very much, that was very brave of you all," Kingsley speaks as the last witness finishes,"Wizengamot members, I would like you and this court to be aware that there were many other witnesses eager to testify against the Malfoys. However, they were unable to do so merely because of the Death Eater mask that prevented them from positively identifying their attacker."

I stand quickly, before he can continue defaming the Malfoys even further. At the disturbance, he glances back at me and forces a smile.

"I now call Mr. Potter to the stand," he says, then emphasizes, "for the defense?"

Murmurings go around the court room and I distinctly hear one juror ask another if I'm "under the bloody imperius curse."

Be calm, be strong. Deep deep deep breath…

I rise out of my seat and give the minister a curt nod. I focus my entire attention on my feet so that I make it down the stairs relatively smoothly.

_Come on, Harry. You faced Ginny's wrath. You can do anything. _

Once in front of the witness chair, I remain standing, refusing to sit in it. I look up at the looming podium, finding the minister's eyes. He gestures me to begin with a shrug of his brow.

Fuck, what am I going to say?

Before I have a chance to turn a matching shade of crimson once again, my mouth is open and words are flowing out, magically amplified.

"The war is over and we now feel a need to blame someone for the hurt it left in us. We want to simplify it in order to understand it. I get that. We want to know what went wrong that caused our loved ones to be taken from us. We want to be able to know, to look in the face of a person, and say 'that is the source of evil, that is the reason we suffer.' We are angry," here I pause for dramatic affect as though I were some great, smooth orator. Where is this coming from?!

"The truth is, war is not simple. If fact, it is extremely complex. Especially a wizarding war. Who knows who was _imperius_ed and who was not. (Half of you think I am under a spell right now!) In war, motivations are unknown. Beliefs come in all variations, sides are hard to define."

The scary part is I am not sure I'm _not _under a spell the way my tongue seems to be moving on its own.

"We all know that Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater and that the Malfoy Manor was Voldemort's dark lair. That is fact. We also know that the Malfoys did not fight in the end battle at Hogwarts. They went looking for their son, Draco Malfoy, who stood against Voldmort, witnessed by hundreds. By going to look for a traitor instead of fighting for their side, the Malfoys effectively turned their backs on Voldemort. Even if only for family, this means something: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have hearts, and they weren't made for Voldemort.

"In fact, Narcissa Malfoy saved my life. Yes, she did. After Voldemort sent a killing curse my way, Narcissa checked me and found that I was still alive. She lied to Voldemort, saying that I was dead. This saved my life.

"I ask for the pardon of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy not only because they switched sides at the end of the war, but also because I truly believe they are changed. Look at them. Not with anger. See? Are you really looking in the face of evil? Or do you just want to believe you are so that you have someone to blame?

"I also ask that the court to consider later trials for the rest of those convicted with war crimes and retrials for those already sentenced. It is too soon after the war. People are too angry and hurt to make rational decisions."

I exhale, finally done with the speech that came out of nowhere. I didn't even know I thought half that stuff! Did I really just _public speak_?

I bow to the minister and then towards the rest of the Wizengamot. The entire courtroom probably heard my exhale, that's how quiet it is. I hesitantly step away from the witness chair and walk back towards the stairs. My footfalls sound like giants' as they echo rudely about the chamber.

I have absolutely no idea how my speech was received. Thinking back, I can hardly remember what I said. Merlin, I hope I didn't offend everyone.

Just as I reach the first step, Kingsley speaks, scaring me out of my magic.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. You have given the court a lot to consider," his voice sounds genuine, that's a good sign, "Are there any more witnesses for the defense of the Malfoys?"

I glance back around the room, hopeful.

"Just one!" a far off, muffled voice is straining to shout. I look eagerly around rows and rows of benches for anyone who's stood up. There's no one.

A rush of light blinds my vision momentarily. I blink rapidly in the direction of the doors that are being pushed open and letting in light. I make out a person's silhouette between the two doors. Then they swing shut and my eyes take a second to adjust.

Draco.

Draco Malfoy stands in front for the door bent over his knees, panting like he just chased a snitch and dressed in Muggle clothes. After a moment he straightens up, brushes his hair out of his eyes, and looks up at Kingsley.

"Minister Shacklebolt," he starts, still a bit breathless, "Allow me to introduce Yurlock, your final witness for the defense."

He looks down as though searching for something, then steps to the side swiftly, revealing a hunched over goblin. The goblin scurries away from view behind Malfoy, but Malfoy dodges it quickly and gives him a push forward. Reluctantly, the goblin shuffles the remaining steps towards the witness chair. It takes him a few tries before he successfully climbs into it.

"Mister… Yurlock?" Kingsley asks skeptically. The goblin hesitates, then nods firmly.

"Your testimony, Mr. Yurlock?" The goblin turns his head towards Malfoy who nods slightly at him.

"I'm an accountant at Gringotts. The Malfoys are one of my clients," he croaks out.

Malfoy's gaze is trained on the goblin as if looking anywhere else will destroy the whole plan, whatever that is. Or maybe destroy him, if he were to catch glimpse of his parents in shackles.

"Mr. Malfoy has given me full permission to disclose the Malfoys' monetary records," the goblin clarifies.

"Probably full compensation as well," a juror behind me mutters .

"On August ninth of last year Mr. Lucius Malfoy withdrew a sum of five hundred thousand galleons. Mr. Draco Malfoy has, as of this morning, returned that same sum to the Malfoy vault. He explains that the money was sent to various intractable Swiss bank accounts in order to keep it out of reach of You-Know-Who. Now that You-Know-Who is dead, he felt it was safe to return it to Gringotts and prove that it was never given to You-Know-Who in the first place."

Yurlock says the word "intractable" with a layer of skepticism himself. While the goblin explains the further logistics, I make my way over to Malfoy.

His eyes are narrowed in a concentrated frown and his hands are clenched, his arms are completely covered by a blue pullover. His whole body seems poised on an edge.

We stand side by side in silence, me not knowing what to say and he still hasn't taken his eyes off the goblin, completely ignoring my gaze

"Er, are you alright?" I ask, wondering if I should poke him or something.

"Fine," he answers fluidly, without so much as blinking. His eyes are moving and I look back to the goblin who, sure enough, is also moving. He hands the minister a booklet, then waddles back to his seat. Kingsley takes a few moments to examine it.

"Nice speech," Malfoy says. I look at him sharply. He is still staring stoically ahead, only this time up at the Wizengamot.

"You heard it?" I ask, hoping he doesn't look at me while my face is burning.

"No, but judging by their thoughts…" he replies, turning his head back towards the goblin.

I'm too thrilled by the news that my speech had some affect to be half as disturbed as I should be by the thought of Malfoy able to perform_ legilimens_ on high ranking wizards. Still, the thought leads to an even more disturbing one.

"Do I even want to know how you found five hundred thousand galleons?" I ask in a whisper. His mouth turns down slightly at my disbelief in the story.

"No," he breathes back. I groan inwardly.

"If what you claim is true," Kingsley Shacklebolt begins, closing the booklet, "It could appear as though Lucius Malfoy was simply hiding his money from Voldemort in case his war failed."

Malfoy's mouth snaps open and he makes a strangled sound just before I cast a silencing spell on him.

I release the spell just as quickly, shaking my head at him. He must have seen me out of the corner of his eye because he gives a tight nod in response.

"That would have been my first assumption as well, Minister," the goblin says in the condescending tone only goblins and professors can manage so well, "however it is _five hundred thousand galleons. _ That is much more than what the Malfoys would need to maintain their status should You-Know-Who have failed. I can only assume that it was Mr. Malfoy's goal to keep that massive sum out of the hands of You-Know-Who for reasons beyond personal wealth. And even if it were a matter of greed, the point is that he did not surrender everything, or even close to everything, to serve the Dark Wizard."

"Wizards do not place the same value on greed as do the goblins," says a wizard in the Wizengamot. He gives a sneer that would make the old Lucius very proud.

A juror in the front of the Wizengamot raises her hand.

"Perhaps the five hundred thousand was procured recently by some means. After all, you said yourself there is no proof of the existence of the Swiss bank accounts."

I glance at Malfoy, his fists are clenched so hard that his knuckles are pure white. For a second I have an impulse to reach out and force his hand open. I quickly pull back my hand.

"Again. _Five hundred thousand galleons. _ In the three days since the end of the war, you think that it is possible for Draco Malfoy to gather such a sum alone? He is a traitor to his pureblood loyalists and his parents are locked up and hated by of the rest of the Wizarding community. No one would help him. He had no debtors to collect from to the knowledge of Gringotts."

True. So how _did_ Malfoy get the five hundred thousand?

There is a pause while Kingsley makes sure there are no more questions for Yurlock.

"Thank you, Mr. Yurlock. Your testimony will be considered. I turn now to the accused. Lucius Malfoy, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

Mr. Malfoy barely raises his eyes to meet the base of the podium before slowly, deliberately shaking his head.

"Very well. May the court scribe note that Lucius Malfoy refused the offer to speak in his own defense. Narcissa Malfoy, do you have anything to say in your defense?"

Narcissa tears her eyes away from her son and up towards the minister.

"Nothing, besides to attest to the truth of what Mr. Potter has testified," she says in a clear voice. Kingsley nods.

"I call this court adjourned while the Wizengamot reviews the evidence!" he shouts. Everyone stands as he does and waits for him to exit.

He pauses in front of me on his way out and tilts his head back, narrowing his eyes. Then, to my utter surprise, a smile breaks loose across his stern face.

"I saw Albus in you, Harry," he says, clapping my shoulder before continuing out.

Albus _Dumbledore_, in _ME?! What did I say?!_

The court room is suddenly all a bustle as people push towards the exit as if they're being chased by foaming-mouthed dementors. Meanwhile, through the crowd, I watch the Malfoys being led towards the prisoner exit. I catch a glimpse of Malfoy's shocked expression just as he looks away from his parents.

My arm is yanked from my socket and I'm pulled out the door just before the crowd catches up.

Oh. They were rushing towards me. I guess that makes more sense than the dementor theory.

Malfoy has a death grip around my wrist as he runs ahead, pulling me through a back hallway.

"Malfoy, what- " He slows down and drops my wrist, then finally comes to a stop, leaning back against the cold stone wall. His eyes are closed. Why doesn't he look at me? I fight the urge to pry open his eyes to make sure he really is okay.

"I accept," he says softly, as though pretending to be anywhere else but here.

"What?" I'm so confused right now.

"Help," he snaps, "I accept your offer to help me."

_Oh! _I can't stop a grin from spreading across my face at that. Probably a good thing his eyes are closed.

"What made you change your mind?" I ask, once I'm able to fake nonchalance.

"A favor I need," he says, opening his eyes and looking down the hallway. My eyebrows skyrocket.

"A favor?" Draco Malfoy ask _me_ for a favor?

Ever so slowly, he drags his eyes up to meet my gaze. His eyes are steady and sure, but there is a practically tangible fear behind them. I almost take a step back.

"Harry, I have Dumbledore's curse. But I don't have a Snape."

It takes me a full minute to realize the full implication of what he's asking me, and the whole time he stares intently at my reaction. My eyes get wider and wider.

"You're asking me to kill you." I form the words my brain has finally processed.

"Well, if we can't cure it, yeah," he says, feigning lightness. It's painfully obvious he has no belief in the possibility of a cure. All I can do is shake my head and hold his gaze.

"Why are you asking this now?" He shrugs.

"Just occurred to me," he says, not even bothering to sound convincing. Yeah, right.

"I can't," I say, shaking my head emphatically, "I've murdered one too many times." It's a weak excuse, but true. I never want to kill again.

He makes a sound that is halfway between a growl and a scoff.

"_Voldemort?_ Please, even those that _loved _him wouldn't call that murder. It was a rebounding curse you didn't even cast. You didn't even use your own wand," he says in a cold, mocking tone.

I take a step back, wanting out of this conversation _now _before I say anything I will regret. As I do so, the fear grows behind his eyes till it threatens to explode in shear panic.

Stop looking! Look away!

I blink.

In that instant a rush of footsteps approach us. _Expelliarmus_ is shouted and Malfoy's wand flies out of his jeans pocket. Hands appear on each of his shoulders. His arms are pinned behind his back.

Despite the chaos around us, his gaze is still holding mine, his expression pleading and full of raw desperation.

NO! I can't! I WILL NOT!

"What is going on?" I shout, Trying and failing to rip my eyes way from his.

"Draco Malfoy, you are being apprehended for magical crimes against Muggles!" someone shouts.

His eyes finally disappear as he's pulled away from the wall and led away by two aurors.

"Where are you taking him!?" I shout over the crowd that took a millisecond to swarm in around me and block my path.

* * *

**A/N: Happy New Year! Sorry this took so long! **

**The next chapter is back to Draco's PoV, which I prefer writing. I tried to make the two have distinctive 'voices', so let me know if you can sense that and whatever other thoughts you have about Harry's PoV. **

**And yeah... reviews are nice!**


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